ONE  HUNDRED    COPIES  OF 

"LUCA    SARTO" 

HAVE  BEEN  AUTOGRAPHED 

FOR  HERBERT  FLETCHER 

AND  HIS  FRIENDS  BY 

THE    AUTHOR 


OCTOBER,  1921 


LUCA  SARTO 


"What    think    you    of 


it.     Madrmoist 
building"'" 


le?      Is    it    not    a 


LUCA  SARTO 


A   NOVEL 

A  HISTORY  OF  HIS  PERILOUS  JOURNEY 
INTO  FRANCE  IN  THE  YEAR  FOUR 
TEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY-ONE 


BY 

CHARLES  S.  BROOKS 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1920 


OF  CALIF 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Published,  February,  1920 


TO 
JAMES  C.  BROOKS 


2125637 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

THREE  TAPS  UPON  THE  BOARDS  ...  3 

I  THE  WAY  THE  FOOLERY  STARTS  1 1 

II  STAIN  OF  BLOOD 24 

III  A  MOUNTAIN  JOURNEY 35 

IV  THE  KING'S  FAVOR 45 

V  FROM  OUT  THE  DARK 54 

VI  A  TREASURE  IN  THE  CUPBOARD    ...  63 

VII  I  AM  SUMMONED  TO  THE  KINO              .  73 

VIII  THE  SPIDER 82 

IX  LADIES 93 

X  CABBAGE  IN  THE  DISH 107 

XI  WHEN  THE  CAT 's  AWAY 114 

XII  I  POLISH  MY  SWORD  AND  Go  A-JouR- 

NEYING 122 

XIII  MAISTRO  TAKES  PASSAGE  WITH  ME  .      .    134 

XIV  AN  INN  AT  THE  CROSSROADS  ....    141 
XV     MAISTRO  AGAIN 147 

XVI     WE  TRAVEL  SOFTLY    .      .-     .      .      .      .152 

XVII     A  NEST  IN  A  CAT'S  EAR 166 

XVIII     A  HINT  FOR  MY  TOMBSTONE      .      .      .    180 
XIX     IF  ADAM  HAD  KEPT  His  RIB  .      .      .      .    184 
XX    WHAT  COMES  OF  DRINKING  FROM  Too 

MANY  BOTTLES 196 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI  THE  POOL  OF  FRANCE 204 

XXII  MAGGOTS  OF  THE  BRAIN 219 

XXIII  How  THE  SMUDGE  WAS  BLOWN  TO  Louis  232 

XXIV  I  AM  ASSAILED  BY  THE  LITTLE  PINK  GOD  242 
XXV  THE  DAY  OF  WONDERS 252 

XXVI     THE  GOSSIP  OF  THE  TREES     ....   258 
XXVII     HERE  ARE  Two  MEN  DEAD   .     .     .     .263 
XXVIII     THE   WIND  SHIFTS   UNTIL   IT   BRINGS 

THE  RAIN 272 

XXIX     THE  DICE  STILL  FALL  TO  THE  DEUCE 

SPOTS 279 

XXX     HERE  is  THE  VILLAIN 290 

XXXI     AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  WINDING  STAIR 
WAY    296 

XXXII     AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  RIDDLE  ....  312 

XXXIII  WHO  TRAVELS  FAR  WILL  DISAPPEAR     .  324 

XXXIV  I  TRY  A  FALL  WITH  THE  KING     .      .      -331 
XXXV     How  THE  KING'S  PRAYERS  WERE  AN 
SWERED     344 

XXXVI     A  SONG  FOR  Two  VOICES — WITH  AC 
COMPANIMENT     354 


LUCA  SARTO 


THREE  TAPS  UPON  THE  BOARDS 

ANIGHT  of  May  in  the  year  fourteen  hun 
dred  and  seventy-one  begins  these  adven 
tures  in  France ;  not  my  first  adventure,  or  my  last ; 
but  of  interest,  for  therein  I  bandied  words  with  a 
king,  and  later  tripped  his  royal  legs  when  it 
served  me.  I  descended,  too,  into  the  dungeons 
at  Loches,  where  his  enemies  were  rotting — and  I 
was  to  have  been  of  them  had  his  purpose  carried. 
And  here  am  I  safe  in  Italy,  albeit  even  after 
these  ten  years  the  dungeon's  smell  still  festers 
in  my  nostrils.  Few  men  besides  myself  have 
gone  down  the  winding  steps,  have  seen  the  cage 
where  Cardinal  Balue  whines  all  day  and  night, 
have  felt  the  damp  of  underground,  and  still  have 
returned  to  the  upper  world  to  breathe  the  wind 
of  it. 

I  issued  from  these  adventures  with  credit. 
And  yet  there  was  one  rogue  in  France,  a  certain 
Tristan,  the  King's  headsman,  a  dirty  fellow 
flecked  with  warts,  who  rolled  me  in  the  mire 
and  soiled  my  lace,  and  he  to  my  shame  still  lives. 

3 


4  Luca  Sarto 

Of  others  who  gainstood  me,  there  are  two,  as  I 
recall,  dead  by  my  sword.  But  my  memory  in 
petty  matters  is  not  precise.  I  keep  no  tapster's 
score  with  chalk. 

In  these  adventures,  while  I  do  profess  me  to 
God  that  I  tell  the  general  truth,  yet  I  '11  not 
haggle  on  all  lesser  points.  There  is  a  prudish 
scholar  who  strains  upon  minutiae,  measuring  his 
facts,  as  it  were,  with  so  careful  thumb  that  he  be 
smirches  them.  Such  will  plot  a  city  to  an  inch, 
as  if  it  were  a  book  for  pilgrims.  Or  he  wracks 
himself  whether  there  were  five  buttons  precisely 
on  the  King's  shift,  and  whether  his  poke  hung 
by  a  silken  thread  and  the  color  of  it.  Or  if  a 
slightest  point  in  history  is  forgotten — whether 
it  was  of  a  Tuesday  that  the  Queen  came  of  a 
jaundice — he  squints  within  a  dozen  folios  for 
a  certain  reckoning.  When  the  body  is  dead  and 
wrapped,  it 's  best  to  go  off  on  other  business  and 
not  pry  within  the  cerecloth. 

Counter  to  him,  there  is  the  writer  who  tosses 
you  a  sentence  with  no  slightest  heed  to  its  truth 
or  falsity.  If  there  is  a  jig  and  cadence  in  the 
words,  it  is  enough.  It  matters  not  to  him  how 
he  mislead  you  by  his  looseness.  He  flavors  a 
lie,  as  it  were  with  tiny  pinch  of  truth,  as  salt 


Three  Taps  Upon  the  Boards  5 

from  can,  to  give  it  the  taste  and  tang  of  verity. 
If  such  a  writer  is  set  upon  by  two  men,  he  puts 
it  roundly  five,  not  braggingly  to  swell  himself, 
but  for  the  deeper  zest  of  him  who  reads;  for  the 
blood  stirs  more  when  the  odds  are  great. 

I  who  write  these  memoirs  am  of  neither  kind. 
When  the  matter  is  of  import,  I  shall  hold  to  the 
hair-line,  so  that  a  scholar  may  gloss  his  approval 
in  the  margin.  Yet  in  trivial  matter  I  shall  allow 
myself  a  touch  of  fancy.  It  may  gratify  me, 
now  and  then,  to  throw  in  an  extra  oath  to  spice 
my  page.  Or  I  shall  take  credit  to  myself  for 
an  instant  wit,  snapped  to  the  occasion,  whereas 
in  truth  the  words  have  come  to  me  stale  when 
their  use  was  past. 

Nor  shall  I  always  hold  myself  to  exact  de 
scription,  so  that  you  shall  know  the  very  turn 
of  road  where  my  adventures  chanced.  If  you 
now  enter  Loches  and  seek  the  stairs  where  I 
trailed  the  lady  in  the  dark,  you  will  have  to  put 
a  deal  of  questions.  I  would  as  leave  a  dog  kept 
barking  at  my  heels  as  that  you  should  whine 
upon  my  footsteps.  You  will  be  monstrous 
empty  before  you  smell  the  bakeshop  where  I  fell 
upon  a  brawl,  I  've  so  mixed  the  streets. 

It  were  nature,  maybe,  that  you  go  poking  to 


6  Luc  a  Sarto 

the  dungeons  to  find  the  iron  grating  that  the 
King  looked  through  when  he  badgered  Jacques; 
yet  there  too  I  shall  twist  you  up.  To  this  very 
day  I  can  see  his  grinning  face  between  the  irons. 
Wit  enough  had  King  Louis — wit  to  spare  until 
he  tried  it  on  Mademoiselle  Diane.  It  was  ash 
then.  Sarto  is  no  youngling.  His  beard  is  not 
raw  with  youth.  It  has  sprouted  beyond  an  easy 
plucking.  Chance  these  many  years  has  been 
up  and  down  with  him.  Yet  the  memory  of  this 
occasion  sits  deep,  with  rats  gnawing  in  the  pas 
sage  and  water  dripping  from  the  walls.  You  '11 
find  that  mine  is  not  a  tale  for  candle-light:  For 
if  the  night  wind  slaps  a  shutter  while  you  read, 
it  will  set  you  in  a  boggle  and  you  '11  not  sleep 
thereafter. 

I  '11  not  have  my  affairs  like  a  shrine  for 
mumbling  pilgrims.  If  you  think  I  have  left 
a  sign  post,  it 's  up  awry,  purposely  to  lead  you 
off.  I  '11  not  be  held  to  petty  inquisition,  like  a 
peddler  in  a  fair  with  cloths  to  sell.  But  in  the 
bigger  reckoning  you  can  swear  upon  me  as  on 
a  Bible. 

Sarto  has  read  the  chroniclers — Froissart  for 
one — for  it  is  fitting  that  a  man  who  would  write 
his  own  memoirs  should  ground  himself  in  gen- 


Three  Taps  Upon  the  Boards  J 

eral  history.  And  yet — although  there  are 
cunning  facts  to  be  got  from  him — on  the  whole  he 
likes  not  this  Froissart.  For  he  writes  too  much 
of  war.  One  would  think  that  the  fair  lands 
of  Europe,  to  a  finger's  space,  had  been  bruised 
and  trenched  with  strife.  And  yet  with  a  song 
water  is  carried  from  the  well  and  cattle  low  in 
peace  and  on  many  a  twilight  the  quiet  kettle 
sings.  The  country  songs  are  naught  to  Frois 
sart,  nor  the  greetings  at  the  crossroads,  nor  the 
friendly  cackle  at  the  wayside  booth  where  cross 
and  saint  are  sold.  Tra-la  la-la-la!  Youth 
comes  wooing  across  the  fields,  and  there  was 
never  yet  a  comely  lass  who  was  not  kissed  in 
moonlight.  Her  lips,  since  the  first  winking  of 
the  stars,  have  been  an  eager  target.  Her  smile 
spins  the  lonely  compass  into  port.  Pilgrims  limp 
upon  the  windy  hills  and  count  her  kiss  the 
journey's  end.  But  Froissart  is  blind  to  all  this 
sweeter  traffic  of  the  earth.  He  writes  of  broil 
alone — crackling  bombards  and  conspiracy  and 
siege.  Only  when  the  city  tumbles  does  he  find 
his  satisfaction. 

Sarto  is  of  better  guidance.  Ladies  are  fairest 
in  the  spring — jewel  and  brooch,  silk  and  velvet, 
an  inch  of  stocking,  a  bare  shoulder  in  the  candle- 


8  Luca  Sarto 

light.  If  Sarto  does  not  give  these  space  to  your 
content,  he  '11  eat  sop  for  a  month  in  penance. 

And  here  he  is  writing  of  a  France  that  rumbled 
with  the  quarrels  of  Burgundy  and  Brittany,  also 
of  the  white-faced,  thin-shanked  Guienne — a 
shriveling,  this  Guienne,  though  begot  of  a  king 
and  born  four-posted  in  a  palace  with  a  queen  in 
labor — all  these,  mark  you,  quarreling  against 
King  Louis ;  until  later  the  smudge  blows  to  open 
war.  And  yet  Sarto  does  not  prate  too  long  of 
conspiracy.  He  throws  off,  as  it  were,  the  cover 
from  the  pot  and  shows  you  how  the  mess  seethes 
and  boils,  but  then  he  claps  it  on  again  and  does 
not  scald  you  with  the  heated  fumes. 

For  this  is  no  prattle  of  the  great.  Not  one 
man  shall  I  lug  across  my  pages  because  there  are 
orders  on  his  breast,  or  because  his  stocking  is 
held  by  a  king's  garter.  Louis  the  king  I  must 
have,  for  he  is  a  part  of  my  plot.  But  these 
others — God's  patience — no!  I'll  not  have 
Dunois,  although  he  is  a  gallant  soldier  and 
would  grieve  on  reading  my  book  to  think  I  'd 
slighted  him.  For  he  holds  me  as  a  friend. 

And  I  '11  not  have  Commines,  despite  that  he 
admires  me,  and  when  I  saw  him  last  he  drank 
a  health  to  me — it  was  a  rare  vintage — yet  de- 


Three   Taps   Upon  the  Boards  9 

spite  his  greasy  compliment  I  mistrust  him  much. 
He  shifts  his  allegiance  too  often.  First  he 's 
lapped  and  petted  by  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 
Then  like  a  shrewd  wanton  he  sells  his  favors  to 
the  King.  He  turns  east  or  west,  or  north  or 
south,  and  like  a  windmill  he  obeys  the  quick  ad 
vantage  of  the  wind.  Charles  the  Bold,  too — a 
forthright  fellow  with  a  roaring  voice  and  thick 
strong  legs — him  I  shall  leave  among  the  Switz- 
ers.  We  shall  hear  him  bawling,  but  at  a  dis 
tance. 

Nor  is  a  woman's  smile  a  passport  to  my  notice. 
Now  and  then,  as  it  pleases  me,  I  may  throw  a 
lively  wrench  across  my  page,  just  to  pass  my  cup 
or  strap  my  boots.  Or  if  she  be  worthy  I  '11  kiss 
her  behind  a  curtain.  But  she  will  be  no  more 
than  a  trinket  and  bauble  in  my  book.  Of  ladies 
I  shall  show  you  only  one. 

In  this  tale  I  shall  please  myself.  If  I  wish  a 
man  to  limp,  he  '11  limp  at  a  nod  from  me.  When 
I  want  a  villain,  I  '11  draw  him  black  beyond  the 
use  of  nature.  'Fore  God,  I  '11  smutch  him  deep, 
that  you  be  in  no  doubt.  You  know  me  now. 

We  shall  see,  when  all  is  done,  how  a  man  fled 
wisely  from  his  enemies,  the  Orsini;  how  he 
came  to  France;  how  later,  in  good  time,  he 


io  Luca  Sarto 

wooed  and  kissed  a  lady;  how,  after  a  night  that 
was  candled  by  stars  and  danger,  the  morning 
sun  was  witness  to  their  betrothal.  I  end  with 
priest  and  blessing.  No  need  of  candle  then. 

And  therefore,  if  you  are  not  content  with  what 
I  shall  play  before  you,  good  e'en  to  you  before 
we  start.  I  '11  have  no  one  sitting  by,  yawning 
between  his  fingers  and  gazing  around  empty  upon 
the  walls.  To  any  such  his  twenty  centimes  will 
be  returned  at  the  wicket.  A  common  juggler 
will  keep  him  best  from  nodding. 

Are  you  set — and  are  you  hushed?  I  '11  now 
tap  thrice  upon  the  boards,  as  is  the  players' 
custom,  and  draw  the  curtain. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    WAY    THE    FOOLERY    STARTS 

I'LL  start  my  history  in  the  murk.  A  May 
night  begins  it — a  wet  night  with  water 
in  the  gutters  and  rain  against  the  stones. 
There  was  a  shrill  wind  this  night,  the  last  of  the 
noisy  brood  of  March,  which  rattled  the  doors 
upon  the  street  and  slapped  the  shutters  where 
it  found  them  loose.  One  would  think  that  the 
wind  had  been  bibbling  since  the  noon  and  was 
now  abroad  like  a  drunken  reveler  on  a  night  of 
carnival.  Were  any  traveler  still  upon  the  street 
he  might  expect  the  swaggering  fellow  to  pluck 
his  coat-tails  and  swish  them  in  his  eyes,  or  to 
push  him  from  the  wall  if  he  turned  a  comer 
sharp.  Whereat,  the  wind  went  off  with  saucy 
tune  in  search  of  other  winds  as  drunken  as  it 
self,  to  play  their  pranks  together  until  the  dawn. 
Yet  it  was  no  night  for  revelry  other  than  the 
wind's,  for  it  was  cold  and  sharp  with  dampness. 
To  the  west,  although  the  sun  had  been  down 
but  a  little  while,  the  sky  was  already  blanketed 


ii 


12  Luc  a  Sarto 

for  the  night,  as  if  it  had  gone  to  bed  for  warmth 
and  had  drawn  the  gray  covers  to  its  chin. 

Into  Rouen  there  had  come  jolting  this  night  a 
traveling  carriage,  while  as  yet  it  was  hardly  dark. 
It  was  a  lumbering  vehicle,  slopped  with  mire, 
and  was  hung  on  straps  to  ease  it  in  the  ruts.  In 
front  was  a  box  for  the  one  who  drove,  with  space 
for  another  servant  at  his  side.  It  was  a  noisy 
hulk  upon  the  cobbles,  and  the  rumble  of  it  was 
loud  enough  to  draw  a  deaf  grandam  from  the 
settle.  As  for  the  passengers  it  carried,  if  you 
had  looked  hard  at  it  through  the  dusk  you  would 
have  seen  women's  faces  at  the  window,  peering 
out  curiously  now  as  they  rattle  through  the  town. 
Mademoiselle  Diane  Motier  and  Madame  Corday 
are  journeying  from  Boulogne  to  Paris,  and  they 
will  spend  the  night  here  at  Rouen. 

If  you  will  now  take  a  map  and  will  lay  your 
finger  on  the  English  Channel  at  the  strait  of 
Dover,  you  will  find  Boulogne.  This  is  where 
the  journey  had  begun  two  days  since.  Beauvais 
lies  on  the  direct  road  to  Paris,  and  the  carriage 
in  order  to  make  Rouen  had  been  forced  to  sheer 
off  the  shorter  road.  It  cost  a  day,  for  the  roads 
were  heavy,  yet  Mademoiselle  and  Madame 
had  insisted,  although  it  appeared  that  both  of 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  13 

them  were  in  haste  to  arrive  at  Paris  and  chafed 
even  on  a  change  of  horses.  When  the  driver 
had  pointed  out  how  it  cranked  their  course, 
Mademoiselle  had  answered  shortly  that  a  view 
of  the  cathedral  was  worth  the  time.  There  was 
a  holy  nail  to  kiss. 

In  Rouen,  Jocelyn's  inn  is  of  best  repute.  It 
is  not  of  fair  prospect,  being  set  on  a  narrow 
street.  It  is  not  the  fellow  of  an  Italian  inn, 
yet  will  do  for  France.  A  serving  man  ran  off 
to  fetch  Jocelyn,  leaving  a  wench  to  undo  the 
ladies'  wraps.  There  hung  a  map  upon  the  wall. 
Mademoiselle  drew  Madame  to  it.  She  sunk 
her  voice  so  that  it  fell  short  of  the  wench's  ear. 
"See,"  she  said,  "how  the  road  from  west  Nor 
mandy  comes  in!" 

And  Madame  nodded  to  it.  "I  trust  he  comes 
to-night,"  she  said.  "I  shall  fret  until  our  news 
is  handed  on." 

"Ay,  Madame,"  Mademoiselle  replied.  "We 
fetch  yeast  for  the  cooking.  It  will  stir  our  raw 
ness  and  blow  the  cover  from  the  pot." 

To  this  Madame  agreed,  but  put  her  fingers  on 
her  lips,  for  the  wench  hung  near  with  itching  ears. 

At  last,  when  the  inn  was  settled  for  the  night, 
there  did  come  a  man  off  the  west  Norman  road. 


14  Luca  Sarto 

He  beat  upon  the  door,  although  the  hour  was 
late  and  lights  were  out.  Jocelyn,  who  kept  the 
inn,  turned  twice  in  his  bed  before  he  gave  heed, 
disjointing  the  racket  from  his  dreams.  Then  as 
the  thumping  on  the  door  kept  up  and  the  whole 
inn  was  being  roused,  he  put  his  fat  legs  outside 
the  coverings,  muttering  the  while  whether  honest 
men  could  still  be  up  at  such  an  hour.  But  it  was 
a  fellow  from  the  stable  who  made  answer  to  the 
summons,  blinking  through  a  crack  of  the  out 
side  door  and  rubbing  his  knees  together  to  get 
warmth  in  them,  for  they  showed  beneath  his  shift 
and  were  pimpled  with  the  cold.  The  wench, 
too,  who  had  undone  the  ladies'  wraps,  put  her 
head  from  an  upper  window,  with  her  hair  loose 
upon  the  casement,  and  her  garment  clutched  at 
the  throat  against  the  rawness. 

So  the  horseman  came  in.  And  Mademoiselle 
met  him  on  the  stairs  with  a  candle,  wearing  such 
shift  as  ladies  wear  in  their  own  rooms,  yet  stock 
inged  and  in  full  modesty.  Behind  her  on  the 
landing  stood  Madame  Corday.  Mademoiselle 
shaded  the  light  against  the  gust  and  gave  a 
cry  of  eagerness  when  she  saw  him.  It  appeared 
to  the  wench,  who  lagged  behind  a  curtain  and 
later  gossiped  of  the  affair,  that  she  had  been 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  15 

expecting  him.  But  the  wench  saw  little  and 
would  not  have  known  the  man  again,  for  her  own 
attire  was  scant,  and  the  wind  so  twitched  her 
garment  from  her  legs  that  she  dodged  behind 
a  door  when  he  came  up  the  stairs.  The  two 
ladies  and  this  man  were  closeted  an  hour.  When 
he  left,  it  was  without  turning  his  head  upon  the 
stairs — a  parting  most  unlike  a  lover,  the  wench 
thought,  for  her  head  had  been  busy  with  the 
matter  and  she  could  find  no  other  explanation. 

He  came  down  three  steps  at  a  time  and  jerked 
his  cap  close  upon  his  ears.  But  he  did  not  so 
much  as  look  back  upon  Mademoiselle,  though 
she  was  a  pretty  picture  on  the  landing,  with  the 
candle  held  above  her  head  so  that  her  arm  was 
bare  and  with  one  toe  peeping  from  her  sandal 
like  an  adventuring  mouse. 

He  slammed  the  outside  door.  Back  again 
he  went  on  the  road  to  western  Normandy.  It 
was  strange  business,  and  late — for  the  nunnery 
bell  gave  the  hour.  It  was  the  same  wench  who 
let  him  out — she  had  smocked  herself  the  while 
—and  she  gossiped  of  it  with  Jules  the  stable  boy 
over  the  embers  of  the  kitchen  fire,  but  both  were 
doubtful  as  to  the  meaning  of  it.  If  the  man 
had  been  her  lover,  it  was  a  cold  greeting  for  his 


16  Luca  Sarto 

journey.  He  had  but  kissed  her  fingers,  which 
is  a  slim  ritual  for  love.  And  a  lover  does  not 
thump  and  bawl  before  a  door  until  he  rouse  the 
house.  Rather,  he  comes  softly  and  taps  only 
with  his  finger  tips.  These  thoughts  from  the 
wench,  who  knew  love,  in  a  fashion.  Jules  had 
given  the  man  a  change  of  horses  and  took  in 
payment  a  silver  coin.  He  and  the  wench 
fumbled  it  in  the  light  that  came  off  the  hearth, 
but  it  was  unknown  to  them. 

Mademoiselle  made  no  mention  at  breakfast 
of  the  night's  interruption,  although  Jocelyn 
hinted  for  an  explanation  as  he  served  them.  "A 
noisy  night,  my  lady,"  he  said.  "I  had  just 
dropped  off—  And  much  more  as  he  fetched 
the  dishes.  Sharp  after  breakfast,  Mademoiselle 
and  Madame  cloaked  themselves  for  the  journey. 
The  driver  asked  them  if  they  wished  to  visit 
the  cathedral,  to  which  Mademoiselle  said,  "To 
Paris,  with  all  speed!" 

It  was  two  nights  beyond  Rouen  that  Made 
moiselle's  carriage  entered  Saint  Denis,  which  is 
a  mere  speck  upon  the  map,  a  thumb's  distance 
out  of  Paris. 

The  inn  of  best  commodity  in  Saint  Denis  is 
called  the  Seven  Stars.  On  the  steps  of  the  inn 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  17 

was  the  landlord,  holding  down  his  apron  lest  the 
win-d  snatch  him  naked,  and  tilting  his  head  to 
meet  the  blast.  At  the  first  rumble  of  the  wheels 
inside  the  yard  he  had  kicked  a  blaze  upon  the 
hearth,  for  the  loudness  of  the  wheels  bespoke 
wealth,  as  traveling  carriages  are  rare.  Mayhap 
it  was  some  one  of  the  court.  At  this  pleasing 
thought,  his  mind  sought  out  a  very  bottle  in  his 
cellar.  It  was  to  be  hoped  that  the  spiders  had 
been  diligent,  for  a  cobweb  would  pop  the  price 
to  silver. 

Yet  now  his  hopes  went  down,  for  he  got  no 
further  than  to  say  that  there  had  gone  a  stew 
upon  the  fire,  by  'r  Lady,  that  would  "make  a 
traveler's  tongue  waggle  with  hunger,"  when 
Mademoiselle  hushed  him  with  a  request  for  only 
a  change  of  horses.  At  this  the  driver  blurted 
that  horses'  legs  would  serve  their  present  pur 
pose  better  than  a  leg  of  lamb,  no  matter  what 
the  garnish.  It  was  an  old  and  sorry  jest  that 
was  stale  in  Paris. 

Once  Mademoiselle  put  her  head  to  the  win 
dow  of  the  carriage.  The  landlord  was  bustling 
in  the  yard.  "What  is  the  time*?"  she  asked. 

"An  hour,  full,  beyond  sunset.  It 's  a  thievish 
hour,  good  lady.  We  've  most  uncommon  beds." 


1 8  Luca  Sarto 

''How  far  do  you  make  it  to  Paris — to  the 
Porte  Saint  Honored" 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  a  sorry  bit.  Two 
hours  at  best — with  sloughs  that  make  it  bad  by 
night.  It  is  shorter  by  day  and  safer  from  the 
thieves.  Just  last  week,"  he  persisted,  "a  trav 
eler's  throat  was  cut." 

He  said  this  last  with  a  gesture  toward  the 
glow  of  the  hearth  fire,  for  he  had  craftily  set 
the  door  ajar.  Comfort  is  a  fair  siren. 

Mademoiselle's  mind  was  set  on  Paris,  and 
she  waved  him  off.  The  harnessing  was  done. 
The  driver  cracked  his  whip  and  scattered  the 
stable  boys.  Out  they  swept  from  the  yard. 

The  night  had  fallen  black.  The  only  light, 
except  for  a  rare  window,  came  from  the  lantern 
between  the  wheels. 

They  were  well  on  their  way  to  Paris  before 
either  spoke.  Madame  Corday  first.  "Diane," 
she  said,  "John  of  Bourbon  must  sit  late  for  us 
to-night." 

"Ay,  Madame.  But  it  will  be  less  than  an 
hour  now." 

"And  Duke  Francis,"  Madame  Corday  con 
tinued;  "do  you  think  by  now  he  has  our  mes 
sage?" 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  19 

"Brittany,  Madame,  is  far  off,  yet  it 's  likely." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Diane,  we  move  on  ice." 

"We  must  take  care,  then,  that  we  do  not 
slip."  This  from  Mademoiselle. 

They  entered  Paris  by  the  Porte  Saint  Honore, 
a  gloomy  pile  with  not  a  light  upon  its  face. 
And  yet  the  gate  was  not  closed.  It  gaped 
blackly.  One  would  have  thought  the  hulk  were 
sound  asleep  and  that  its  jaw  had  fallen  open. 

A  king's  archer,  who  had  been  screening  him 
self  from  the  wind  behind  a  buttress,  ordered 
them  to  stop.  He  mounted  the  step  and  thrust 
a  lantern  inside  the  carriage  with  a  demand  for 
papers. 

"  'Mademoiselle  Diane  Motier  and  Madame 
Corday,'  "  he  read,  scratching  his  head  to  stir  his 
ingenuity,  for  he  was  an  imperfect  scholar.  "You 
and  you !"  pointing  with  his  dirty  finger.  "And 
you  travel  from  Boulogne  to  Paris,  with  a  stop  at 
Rouen.  Motier — Motier1?"  He  repeated  the 
name  slowly,  as  though  it  stirred  his  memory. 
Then  he  turned  his  back  and  bawled  to  the 
guardroom. 

Another  archer  appeared,  but  of  better  rank, 
and  shoved  the  other  from  the  steps.  This  second 


2O  Jjuca  Sarlo 


archer  looked  at  the  papers  paused  a  bit,  then 
smirked  with  a  show  of  manners.  "Mademoiselle 
and  Madame  are  safe  returned,  I  trust,"  was  all 
he  said.  He  held  up  the  light  and  thrust  it  in 
their  face*.  He  then  peered  into  the  corners  of 
the  carriage,  withdrew  his  light  and  clambered 
from  the  step.  "It  is  enough,"  he  said.  "Drive 


on!' 


If  Mademoiselle  had  turned  sharply  as  her 
hones  started  and  had  lookrd  through  the  win 
dow  at  the  back,  she  would  have  noticed  that  this 
archer,  who  but  a  moment  since  had  grinned  his 
farewell  to  her,  was  now  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Light  came  from  the  guardroom  door,  yet  the  man 
was  not  in  the  range  of  it. 

There  was,  however,  a  new  shadow  from  the 
lantern  betwren  thr  whirls,  a  daub  of  black  upon 
the  pavement,  as  though  somr  one  wrrr  swinging 
by  the  knres,  head  down,  from  the  straps  beneath. 

Yet  Mademoiselle  was  unaware  that  she  hail 
taken  on  another  passenger. 

The  carriage  had  gone  scarcely  two  hundred 
paces  ancl  had  come  to  the  thicker  mesh  of 
streets  when  on  a  sharp  turn  a  wheel  sunk  into 
a  deeper  rut  than  common  in  the  cobbles.  Partly 
it  was  the  jolt  and  |>artly  it  was  the  weight  of 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  21 

the  rogue  who  swung  beneath,  but  whichever 
was  the  cause  the  great  strap  snapf>cd  and  the 
carriage  pitched  ufxm  its  side. 

Madame  Corday  was  the  first  on  her  feet. 
"God's  wounds!"  she  cried;  "here  is  bad  busi 
ness!'  Then  in  a  lower  tone  to  Mademoiselle, 
"John  of  Bourbon  will  fret  for  our  coming." 

Marcel  the  driver  was  nosing  at  the  wheel. 
Mademoiselle  called  to  him.  "Marcel,"  she 
asked,  "what  is  the  time  of  night  ?" 

"Oh,  lady,  as  shrewdly  as  I  can  guess  it  lacks 
three  hours  of  midnight." 

"And  how  far  do  you  make  it  to  the  Hotel 
Bourbon?  Is  it  fit  going  afoot?" 

Marcel  scratched  his  head.  "No,  lady,  it 's 
half  the  width  of  Paris.  It  would  not  be  safe." 
He  hesitated  and  glanced  along  the  dark  house 
fronts.  "It 's  likely  that  there  is  a  leather  mer 
chant  hereabouts.  If  I  had  a  leather  thong  I 
could  mend  the  strap." 

"Marcel,"  said  Mademoiselle,  "we  are  pushed 
for  time-.  How  long  will  it  take?" 

"A  half  hour,  lady."  He  wrung  the  water 
from  his  hat.  "Fie,  what  a  night!  I  must  find 
a  place  for  Madame  and  Mademoiselle  to  sit." 
He  called  the  lackey  to  him.  "Stand  you  here, 


22  Luca  Sarto 

boy!  There  is  a  glimmer  down  the  lane.  Some 
one  is  not  yet  a-bed.  If  the  house  looks  well, 
I  '11  ask  for  shelter." 

The  ladies  waited  under  the  cover  of  a  pent 
roof,  hard  against  the  wall.  It  was  plain  they 
chafed  at  the  delay.  Mademoiselle's  restless  toe 
kept  tapping  at  the  pavement.  "Madame,"  she 
said,  "John  of  Bourbon  will  fret  at  our  delay." 

Madame  nodded,  but  held  her  tongue. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  Marcel  returned, 
and  then  he  brought  a  man  with  him.  By  the 
lightness  of  his  step  he  was  young,  by  the  flash  of 
the  lantern  he  was  handsome — no  mincing  pretti- 
ness  for  kissing  in  the  moonlight,  but  a  bold, 
straight  nose  and  a  cheek  that  was  browned  in  the 
sun.  He  was  wrapped  in  a  great  cloak  against 
any  further  discovery  of  his  person.  He  came  in 
front  of  the  ladies,  and  after  the  briefest  glance 
bowed  low  to  Mademoiselle.  "Ah,  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  are  good  to  a  poor  artist."  It 
was  a  pleasant  voice  touched  with  an  accent  that 
was  not  French.  "They  honor  my  poor  roof. 
Perchance  the  name  of  Luca  Sarto  is  known  to 
you*?  It  is  my  own,  Mademoiselle.  I  am  an 
Italian  artist  living  now  in  Paris — paintings— 
goldwork — a  poet,  in  a  fashion,  when  the  wind  is 


The  Way  the  Foolery  Starts  23 

south.  Ah,  I  hoped  that  Mademoiselle  had 
heard  of  me.  My  thanks,  dear  lady.  So  foul  a 
night — the  wind !  It  races  to  catch  the  winds  of 
winter.  Mother  of  God,  it 's  ill  that  you  stand 
here  in  the  rain.  Hell  itself  blows  raw  in  March. 
Come,  my  fire  blazes !  You  will  see  how  snug  it 
is  inside." 

Then,  as  the  ladies  hesitated,  "Come,"  he 
added.  "It 's  on  these  windy  nights  that  witches 
are  abroad.  They  ride  on  goats  to  a  devil's  sab 
bath.  It 's  an  ill  sight  to  catch  one  against  the 
moon.  Will  Mademoiselle  be  careful  of  the 
pools  in  our  broken  pavement!" 

With  another  courtly  bow  he  led  the  way,  and 
Madame  and  Mademoiselle  followed. 

But  presently  Madame  Corday  plucked  Made 
moiselle's  sleeve  and  drew  her  back.  "Will  John 
of  Bourbon  wait1?"  she  whispered. 

"Ay,  Madame,  he  will.  Our  message  cracks 
his  enemies.  But  keep  silent  before  this  Italian !" 

Meanwhile,  lest  you  be  curious  to  know 
whether  the  rascal  who  swung  upon  the  strap 
broke  his  neck  in  the  jounce,  I  '11  tell  you  short 
that  his  neck  did  not  so  break.  In  the  bawling 
and  pickle  of  the  accident  he  got  off  in  the  dark 
ness  and  no  one  even  saw  him  go. 


CHAPTER  II 

STAIN    OF    BLOOD 

HERE  is  a  leap.  I  choose  to  draw  your  notice 
back  to  Italy  and  to  recite  those  things  that 
concern  me  in  a  proper  order.  And  first,  as  you 
know,  it  is  Luca  Sarto  who  writes,  which  should 
be  enough  for  introduction,  as  the  meanest  pilgrim 
into  Rome  has  stood  agape  before  my  canvasses. 
But  how  comes  it  that  to  France  I  went  adven 
turing?  France  is  a  far-off  land,  and  the  Alps 
stand  between.  Nor  has  it  gold  to  offer  like  the 
kingdoms  of  the  East. 

It  was  a  quarrel  to  avenge  a  comrade  that 
sent  me  traveling.  Giovanni,  who  is  one  of  the 
Orsini,  had  murdered  my  friend  Andrea.  And 
I,  coming  on  Giovanni  in  my  anger  when  his 
fingers  were  still  red,  slew  him  in  payment.  As 
the  Orsini  are  powerful,  a  pother  was  raised,  and 
I  fled  to  France.  Yet,  of  a  truth,  in  me  was  a 
wandering  spirit  apt  for  pretext.  It  is  cobblers 
only  that  can  always  sit  at  home.  There  is 
nobler  itch  in  Sarto.  If  a  man  were  not  made 

24 


Stain  of  Blood  25 

to  walk  about  and  see  the  whole  fair  earth,  of 
what  use  is  such  cunning  jointry  in  his  legs'? 
Yet  I  was  a  fugitive  with  a  warrant  over  me. 

Now  mark  the  exact  manner  of  this  quarrel 
and  flight! 

In  the  spring  of  fourteen  seventy-one  my 
revered  friend  Francesco  della  Rovere  was  car 
dinal-priest  of  Saint  Pietro  in  Vincoli,  yet  his  am 
bition  still  ranged.  The  title  and  the  office  were 
but  a  ladder  for  his  eager  foot.  In  years  he  was 
fifty-seven — twenty-eight  years  older  than  myself 
—a  man  of  learning,  and  heads  wagged  yet  over 
his  "Precious  Blood,"  recently  put  forth.  Such 
things  are  far  from  me.  I  read  its  title  page, 
then  went  out  and  hummed  a  tune.  But  schol- 
ards  liked  it  and  bleared  their  eyes  on  it. 

In  the  spring  of  fourteen  seventy-one,  infirmi 
ties  were  coming  hard  on  the  Pope,  Paul  II. 
Whereat  talk  buzzed  concerning  his  successor. 
With  this  buzzing,  lay  heed  to  this,  Cardinal 
Rovere's  ears  were  tickling,  for  his  ambition  lay 
that  way. 

Rovere  had  a  nephew,  Andrea — of  my  own  age. 
He  was  in  the  lust  of  youth,  and  it  was  a  gay  and 
painted  world  he  saw.  His  throat  was  dry,  his 
ear  alert  for  the  flapping  of  a  petticoat.  And  for 


26  Luca  Sarto 

a  time  I  followed  his  lead.  If  a  pretty  woman 
smiled  I  pushed  for  an  advantage.  The  dainty 
creatures  are  prudes  at  noon,  yet  by  persuasion  in 
the  dusk  they  mend  their  stiffness.  Nor  did  I 
spare  the  bottle.  This  is  a  time  to  be  slighted 
over,  for  in  it  I  became  a  toss-pot.  And  yet,  in 
this  respect,  I  was  much  like  other  men. 

This  young  Andrea  was  a  man  much  gone  in 
drink,  with  lewdness  in  his  eye — a  man  apt  for 
tryst  and  whistle,  pudgy  of  wit  in  the  dawn,  and 
yet  with  a  wineish  sparkle  when  the  lights  were 
lit.  But  still  some  fascination  held  me  to  him. 

And  now  a  word  of  these  Orsini.  A  mere  flick 
of  notice,  for  of  all  the  Roman  families  this  is 
the  best  known  and  the  strongest.  If  you  go 
back  a  thousand  years  you  '11  find  the  Orsini  in 
high  office,  both  of  church  and  state.  And  al 
ways  you  will  find  them  proud  of  race,  insolent, 
and  pricking  for  quarrel.  So,  when  Cardinal 
Rovere's  name  was  hummed  about  as  a  successor 
to  Pope  Paul,  they  showed  a  deal  of  scorn  that 
one  who  had  been  a  poor  Franciscan,  and  whose 
family  came  from  nothing,  should  have  such 
soaring  thoughts.  Was  Peter's  chair,  they  said, 
no  better  than  a  roadside  bench  for  the  sunning 
of  a  beggar  monk?  One  of  the  Orsini,  they 


Stain  of  Blood  27 

thought,  would  wear  better  the  triple  crown. 
Any  bachelor  of  the  family  could  stretch  his  toe 
with  easier  grace  for  a  pilgrim's  kiss. 

Consider  Andrea  now,  Rovere's  nephew,  a 
young  blade  who  tried  to  put  himself  in  fashion, 
who  tagged  his  cuffs  with  lace  and  dangled  on 
society — my  friend,  God  help  him !  With  what 
slight  the  Orsini  looked  on  him — whelped,  they 
sneered,  at  a  peddler's  bench !  Andrea  bore  it  by 
biting  on  his  nails,  yet  his  spleen  mounted. 

Andrea  and  I  and  many  others,  including  cer 
tain  of  the  Orsini,  and,  in  particular,  this  Gio 
vanni,  prefect  of  Rome,  had  gone  to  dine  on 
invitation  at  the  vineyards  at  Trastevere.  To 
me  the  Orsini  made  a  show  of  warmth,  for  they 
smirk  and  fawn  on  genius.  But  to  Andrea 
they  were,  as  usual,  sullen,  as  if  a  common  fellow 
had  got  in  to  breathe  their  air.  As  this  cool 
ing  did  not  freeze  him,  presently  they  fell  to  an 
amused  contempt — a  lifting  of  the  eyebrows. 
Such  banter  and  wit  as  they  passed  him  across 
the  table  stung  with  deep  malice.  Andrea  had 
borne  their  scorn  before,  but  to-night  it  chafed 
him  beyond  the  common.  Presently  his  noisy 
tongue  broke  loose.  He  cried  out  to  Giovanni 
that  when  Cardinal  Rovere  had  been  made  pope, 


28  Luca  Sarto 

Giovanni  would  find  himself  without  an  office, 
for  he — Nephew  Andrea — coveted  the  post  of 
prefect. 

It  was  a  fool  who  made  the  boast.  Wit  must 
be  met  by  wit,  not  anger.  Finally  I  plucked  him 
to  his  chair.  Giovanni  reddened,  bit  his  lip,  but 
lapsed  to  sullenness.  Thus  went  a  stormy  eve 
ning.  At  last  I  prevailed  on  Andrea  to  leave. 
First  he  swore  an  oath  he  would  not;  then  'fore 
God,  he  would,  for  there  were  swine  at  table,  he 
said.  So  he  left,  but  in  going  he  let  slip  an  hour 
and  place  where  he  had  appointed  a  meeting  with 
some  woman.  He  shook  his  fist  toward  Gio 
vanni.  "I  go  to  better  company,"  he  said.  I 
clapped  him  on  the  mouth  and  led  him  off.  It 
was  a  scowling  room  we  left. 

We  came  into  Rome,  traversing  the  Ponte 
quarter.  Here  Andrea  said  he  was  not  returning 
to  his  house,  as  he  was  going  elsewhere  for  his 
amusement.  At  the  word  he  was  gone,  and  I 
came  on  alone.  I  was  three  quarters  out  of 
liquor  and  steady  in  the  legs  and  wit,  and  I  kept 
a  tolerable  course  across  the  city.  It  was  early, 
as  it  had  passed  midnight  by  not  more  than  an 
hour.  There  were  several  hours  to  rustle  in,  if 
one  had  the  mind,  before  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 


Stain  of  Blood  29 


And  now  I  was  coming  near  where  lived  a  cer 
tain  courtezan  named  Fulvia.  Another  hundred 
steps,  it  was  so  near,  would  have  brought  me  to 
the  lights,  when  behind  in  the  darkness  I  heard 
horses. 

I  stepped  aside  and  drew  me  close,  and  as  the 
horsemen  passed  I  peered  at  them.  One  was 
Giovanni,  the  same  with  whom  Andrea  had  quar 
reled.  Me  he  saw  not.  He  stopped  at  Fulvia's 
door  and  ran  in.  I  paused.  At  the  window 
were  lights,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  merriment. 
Then  I  went  in,  for  I  had  no  quarrel  with 
Giovanni. 

On  the  threshold  I  met  Messer  Gabino.  He 
is  one  who  admires  me  much,  and  so  he  stopped. 
"Sarto,"  he  cried,  and  loosed  a  stream  of  praise 
upon  me  for  a  Madonna  that  I  had  then  but  fin 
ished.  But  I  hushed  him  up,  for  repetition  makes 
praise  tiresome.  As  I  was  poking  here  and  there, 
to  see  what  company  was  about,  again  I  saw 
Giovanni.  He  was  .in  earnest  talk  with  one  they 
call  Jacopo,  but,  as  I  approached,  he  masked  his 
mouth  with  his  hands  and  looked  hard  through 
me.  Jacopo  I  knew,  and,  knowing,  liked  him 
not,  for  he  is  a  rogue  who  sells  himself  when  vile 
work  is  needed.  He  has  been  a  glove  that  has 


30  Luca  Sarto 

kept  blood  from  staining  many  a  gentleman's 
hand.  And  you  have  an  enemy,  he  '11  find 
occasion,  if  you  but  whisper  the  name  and  meet 
his  price. 

"Oh,  ho,"  I  thought,  and  knew  that  mischief 
was  afoot.  But  not  deeply  did  I  mark  it  then,  nor 
harness  it  with  Andrea,  for  such  things  are  fre 
quent,  and  one  cannot  always  be  starting  with 
excitement. 

I  sat  down  and  ordered  red  wine  and  a  board 
of  chess  men.  I  was  puzzling  on  the  moves  that 
check  the  rey  and  was  pushing  my  castles  here 
and  there,  mumbling  to  myself,  when  a  bit  of  easy 
lace  and  powder  perched  on  the  arm  of  my  chair. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  and  put  her  fingers  in  my 
beard  to  get  my  attention. 

"Honey  love,"  I  answered  roughly,  "I  'm  hard 
in  thought."  And  I  pushed  her  off. 

But  she  was  a  pretty  painted  thing  with  bare 
white  shoulder.  God  knows  I  am  no  churl.  I 
took  her  on  my  knee.  "What  now,  my  dear*?" 
I  said,  when  I  had  made  her  comfortable. 

But  she  was  serious.  "Monsieur,"  she  whis 
pered  in  my  ear,  "I  fear  that  there  is  trouble  for  to 
night." 

"And  how?"  I  asked. 


Stain  of  Blood  31 

Whereupon  she  told  me  that  she  had  shared  a 
bottle  of  wine  with  Jacopo  but  a  half  hour  since 
and  that  Giovanni  had  come  by.  He  had  dropped 
the  name  of  Andrea  while  talking  with  Jacopo, 
and  then  had  named  a  street  and  house.  This 
was  in  low  talk,  and  yet  she  had  heard.  "There 
will  be  foulness  on  the  streets  to-night,"  was  her 
ending. 

I  jumped  up,  everything  sorting  with  what  she 
had  said,  and  ran  out.  There  might  still  be  time. 
I  knew  the  house  where  Andrea  had  gone,  and 
it  was  there  I  went.  There  were  no  lights  show 
ing,  nor  had  I  thought  there  would  be.  There 
was  no  need  of  taper  for  his  entertainment.  I 
had  no  desire  to  thump  upon  the  door,  and  rouse 
him  from  his  punkling.  Nor  did  I  wish  to  wait 
like  a  footman.  I  was  irresolute  on  the  step, 
when  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices  at  a  distance  on 
the  river  bank.  I  saw  men  moving  there. 

On  the  chance  that  they  might  be  Giovanni 
and  his  crew,  I  drew  my  sword  for  readiness  and 
slipped  along  in  the  shadow  of  the  buildings  in 
their  direction.  I  came  quite  close  and  peered 
upon  them,  undiscovered,  from  a  recess.  A  white 
horse  stood  with  hind  quarters  to  the  water,  and 
on  the  very  margin  were  three  men.  As  I  looked, 


32  Luca  Sarto 

one  of  them  pointed  to  the  stream,  where  a  dark 
object  showed  in  the  shallow  water.  It  was 
Giovanni  who  turned  and  faced  me.  "It 's  ill, 
Sarto,"  he  said,  "that  you  come  here  to-night." 

"It's  ill,"  I  cried,  "when  three  curs  pitch  upon 
one  man.  Do  I  see  Andrea's  body*?" 

"The  fellow's  insult  stung,"  said  Giovanni. 

"You  pestered  him  and  got  your  due." 

Giovanni  grinned.  "And  Andrea  got  his,"  he 
said.  "But  make  way,  Sarto!  I've  no  quarrel 
with  you." 

"So?"  I  cried.  I  stepped  forward  quickly 
and  slapped  his  cheek. 

Giovanni  angered  and  cried  out.  "I  've  given 
one  swimming  lesson  here  to-night,  Sarto,  but  I  '11 
give  another  while  my  hand  is  in." 

He  drew  his  sword  and  lunged  upon  me.  I 
parried  the  thrust.  Then  I  drove  against  him 
until  I  forced  him  to  the  water's  edge.  There 
was  never  yet  an  Orsini  that  could  fight  with 
Sarto,  and  I  struck  him  down.  His  two  com 
panions  had  gone  running  at  the  first  touch.  This 
happened  near  the  bridge  of  Saint  Angelo,  where 
scavengers  discharge  refuse  in  the  river. 

Near  by  was  a  boat  tied  to  the  bank,  and  on 


Stain  of  Blood  33 

top  of  a  load  of  timber  lay  a  fellow  upon  his 
back.  I  shook  him  and  found  that  he  was  awake. 
He  was  a  boatman  and  had  been  crouching  there 
against  discovery.  I  questioned  him.  He  had 
been  awakened,  so  he  said,  by  the  coming  of  a 
man.  First  this  man  had  looked  all  about  as 
though  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  near.  Then 
the  man  made  a  sign.  Whereupon  from  a  narrow 
street  alongside  the  Hospital  of  San  Girolamo  two 
men  led  a  horse.  Across  the  crupper  hung  the 
body  of  a  man,  the  head  dangling  one  way,  the 
feet  the  other.  Backing  the  horse  to  the  river, 
two  of  the  men  took  the  body,  head  and  feet,  and 
with  a  great  swing  flung  it  far  out  into  the  stream. 
It  was  a  dirty  bit  of  work,  he  said,  but  so  often 
such  things  happened  on  the  bank  that  it  would 
not  have  disturbed  his  rest.  As  long  as  a  body 
is  fresh  dead,  he  said,  it  mattered  not. 

Now  things  came  tumbling  in  my  brain.  Gio 
vanni  and  Jacopo  had  come  on  Andrea  somewhere 
on  the  streets,  and  my  friend  was  dead.  But 
Giovanni  was  dead,  too.  The  anger  of  the 
Orsini  would  not  soon  cool.  I  had  lighted  a  hot 
fire.  It  would  singe  me  if  I  stayed  about.  I 
must  set  upon  my  travels. 


34  Luca  Sarto 

I  went  to  Cardinal  Rovere — Andrea's  uncle— 
and  burst  upon  him  as  he  was  bent  upon  his 
writing.  With  my  grief  I  wracked  his  ears.  It 
was  in  the  dawn  that  I  hurried  out  of  Rome, 
bound  for  France. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    MOUNTAIN    JOURNEY 

IN  the  dawn  we  set  out  for  France — I  and  my 
faithful  servant  Michel.  I  had  ample  gold  to 
meet  the  cost  of  the  journey  and  I  took  also  cer 
tain  drawings  of  my  goldwork,  on  the  chance  that 
I  might  set  up  a  shop  in  Paris.  These  drawings 
I  wrapped  in  an  extra  shift,  together  with  hose, 
against  breakage  and  raveling.  I  tossed  the 
bundle  to  Michel  to  tie  upon  his  saddle.  The 
gold  I  secured  myself.  Also  I  took  a  letter 
which  Cardinal  Rovere  had  written  for  me  to 
King  Louis  XI  of  France.  "King  Louis,"  he 
had  said,  "is  a  niggard  to  the  arts,  but  he  has  a 
long  nose-  for  the  Papacy.  Doubtless  a  rumor 
has  already  got  to  France  how  Paul  declines  in 
health,  and  the  same  rumor  sets  me  up.  You 
may  be  sure  that  Louis  will  not  skimp  his  wel 
come."  It  seemed  sound  reasoning,  and  I  stuffed 
the  letter  carefully  in  my  boot. 

I  mounted  and  beckoned  to  Michel  to  follow 
me.     Knowing  his  honesty,  I  told  him  what  had 

?5 


36  Luca  Sarto 

chanced  the  night  before.  He  gave  a  long 
whistle.  "The  Orsini?  His  kinsmen  will  be 
testy.  Will  they  not  follow  us?" 

"It 's  likely  enough,"  I  answered.  "We 
must  n't  lag.  When  danger  clucks  at  the  reins, 
it 's  well  to  trot." 

Michel  rode  for  a  while  in  silence.  But  if  a 
tongue  is  hung  for  babbling  like  Michel's,  it 
needs  but  a  jounce  to  start  it.  "Master,"  he 
said,  "where  is  this  Paris  where  we  go?  I've 
heard  of  the  place,  but  I  know  not  where  it  is." 

"Dunce!"  I  said,  and  gestured  loosely  to  the 
north  and  west.  "Have  you  no  learning?  It 's 
beyond  Milan  and  beyond  Bern — two  weeks  at 
least.  It 's  hard  against  the  western  ocean. 
Methinks  it 's  on  the  sea." 

As  yet  scarcely  any  one  in  Rome  was  abroad 
for  the  day.  We  had  now  come  to  the  edge  of 
the  city  and  were  passing  a  chemist's  shop,  where 
a  fellow  was  taking  down  the  shutters  for  the 
day.  "Michel,"  I  said,  "see  if  they  keep  flint- 
wort  in  the  shop  and  bring  out  six  ounces  of  it! 
It 's  chillish,  mayhap,  in  France,  and  the  apothe 
caries  there  may  not  have  these  simples." 

We  were  a  mile  beyond  the  shop  when  I  no 
ticed  that  one  of  the  coins  which  Michel  had 


A  Mountain  Journey  37 

taken  in  change  was  clipped.  I  showed  it  to  him 
upon  my  palm.  "Michel,"  I  said,  "the  dishon 
est  whelp  has  cheated  you." 

Michel  was  hot  with  anger  and  he  fumbled  with 
his  dagger.  "I  '11  score  him  off,"  he  blurted. 

"Peace,  gull !"  I  said.  "It 's  a  good  mile  back. 
I  can  repair  the  loss.  I  '11  pass  the  coin  at 
dinner." 

We  trotted  on. 

It 's  a  lean  journey  into  France.  On  the 
fourth  night  we  came  to  Milan.  God  knows  that 
I  am  no  centaur.  We  had  come  pelting  here  so 
fast  that  I  was  horse-sore.  Rubbed  myself  with 
greasy  stuff  to  ease  my  joints.  Tossed  all  night. 
Up  early  next  day,  fretted  with  my  bed.  To  lay 
my  peevishness — for  I  had  been  snapped  at  all 
night  by  bugs — I  bought  myself  a  red  brocade 
fresh  from  Constantinople,  much  the  fashion.  I 
wound  it  about  my  waist  and  let  the  tasseled 
ends  hang  down  along  my  leg.  I  tricked  myself 
dainty  and  walked  around  the  town.  Sarto  is  a 
pretty  figure.  A  lady  smiled  at  me  from  a  case 
ment,  but  her  nose  was  snub  and  I  kept  upon 
my  way.  Here  at  Milan  we  lay  off  a  day,  while 
I  bought  myself  a  sword  of  the  Negroli.  No 
tidings  of  the  Orsini. 


38  Luca  Sarto 

The  next  night  we  lay  on  the  shore  of  Como, 
having  tiaveled  in  a  drench  all  day.  I  hung  my 
garments  at  the  kitchen  stove  and  put  my  boots 
beneath  the  oven,  rousing  out  a  sleepy  cat.  "Has 
the  flood  come  again?"  I  asked.  "Forty  such 
days  and  we  'd  need  an  ark." 

The  inn-keeper  was  gloomy.  "It  drowns  our 
crops,"  he  said.  "There  's  a  usurer,  a  Jew,  lately 
buried  in  consecrated  ground.  It 's  rained  since 
they  laid  him  in." 

"You  '11  get  no  sun  until  he  's  rotted,"  I  an 
swered. 

But  the  inn-keeper  brightened.  "It  is  not  so," 
he  said.  "There  is  a  party  formed  to-night  to 
dig  up  the  corpse  and  toss  it  across  the  fence.  To 
morrow  the  wind  will  shift." 

He  set  out  spaghetti  and  tomatoes.  I  threw 
back  my  head  and  made  a  meal. 

I  know  not  how  many  days  lie  between  Milan 
and  Bern,  but  I  do  know  that  these  long  days  in 
the  saddle  were  not  to  my  stomach.  They 
pinched  my  eagerness  and  set  me  gazing  with 
sullen  thoughts  across  my  horse's  tail  toward 
Rome,  which  is  the  city  of  my  heart.  Had 
Paradise  been  beyond  a  forward  turn  with  angels 
piping,  I  would  still  have  been  indifferent. 


A  Mountain  Journey  39 

Gaston  de  Foix  in  his  book  commends  men  to 
riding.  Whoso  rides,  he  says,  flees  from  the  seven 
deadly  sins  and  comes  to  Paradise.  If  this  be 
so,  Sarto  is  now  seven  jouncing  days  at  least  on 
the  road  to  his  salvation. 

The  country  of  the  Switzers  is  awesome.  The 
mountains  peep  at  heaven.  There  's  snow  laid 
by  to  stock  the  winter  for  a  thousand  years. 
Michel  is  a  sorry  gawk  with  craning  up  his 
neck. 

It  was  after  many  days  with  sweat  and  dirt 
upon  them,  and  flea-bit  nights,  that  we  came  to 
the  monastery  of  Father  Paul.  This  merits  more 
than  a  word.  It  stands  in  a  high  valley.  Long 
before  sight  of  it,  I  knew  its  nearness  by  the 
clappering  of  its  bell.  For  an  hour  I  had  trav 
eled  at  the  sound.  The  bell  was  of  marvelous 
soft  tongue.  Such  clappering  puts  me  in  a  pious 
mood.  There  was  an  older  time,  far  back,  when 
men  were  not  mad  with  whirl  and  stir.  It  was 
in  such  quieter  age  these  bells  were  cast. 

A  sweeter  mood  came  on  me.  I  crossed  my 
self  and  clucked  to  my  horse,  for  we  were  at  last 
come  upon  the  level  of  the  monastery,  with  a 
brawling  stream  below  us.  We  now  went  all 
four  ways  upon  the  crooked  road.  It  was  nearly 


4-O  Luca  Sarto 

sunset,  and  my  shadow  galloped  on  ahead,  im 
patient  of  my  pilgrim's  pace. 

There  was  the  sweat  of  a  weary  day  on  me, 
scarce  dried  now  in  the  colder  evening  wind.  I 
knew  what  foul  inns  are  commonly  met  in  this 
mountain  country.  And  here  was  a  smoke  arising 
from  the  kitchen  chimney  of  a  monastery.  Spits 
and  kettles  were  down  helow  hissing  with  the 
dinner,  and  smell  of  stew  and  herb.  Plates  were 
set  up  to  warm.  There  were  sheep,  too,  upon  the 
hillside,  and  to  my  mind  came  a  hot  fancy  of  a 
leg  of  lamb  with  taste  of  caper.  Also,  where 
thistles  grew  so  thick,  there  must  be  a  drink  con 
cocted  of  them.  It 's  no  true  monk,  who  cannot 
distil  nectar  from  a  wayside  weed.  His  thirsty 
legs  have  searched  the  mountains.  Man  is  di 
vine,  God  knows,  yet  when  twilight  falls  it 's  his 
belly  that  sings  praise  the  loudest.  When  the 
night  creeps  up,  I  make  a  steaming  dish  my  altar. 
If  there  be  any  Pater  Noster,  it  is  short.  And  if 
the  meat  is  savory — lest  my  spoon  be  hurried — I 
hold  the  Nunc  Dimittis  off  an  hour. 

I  followed  my  shadow  through  the  convent  gate. 

A  monk  appeared,  with  Deo  Gratias  at  sight  of 
me;  for  it  is  the  pleasing  custom  on  the  alighting 
of  a  stranger,  to  offer  thanks  that  it  is  permitted 


A  Mountain  Journey  41 

to  serve  his  needs.  Then  he  ran  off  to  find  the 
abbot;  not  fast,  for  fatness  had  left  him  but  a 
waddle.  It  was  good  token  of  the  food. 

The  monks  were  just  back  from  the  fields  and 
now  had  gone  to  the  refectory.  They  are  the 
white  monks,  called  the  Cistercian.  The  refec 
tory  was  quite  distant,  yet  I  could  hear  the 
jostling  of  their  knives  and  the  Latin  that  was 
read  to  them. 

A  brother  hospitaller  now  led  off  my  horse, 
also  Michel  and  his.  As  for  myself,  Father  Paul 
sent  greetings,  with  request  that  I  seek  him, 
where  he  pruned  his  hedges. 

Now  it  lies  in  the  heart  of  this  history  that 
King  Louis  of  France  was  a  spider,  and  that  he 
practiced  later  his  spider's  ways  on  Sarto.  That 
Sarto  came  off  safe  was  the  result  of  his  wit  and 
skill,  but  also  it  resulted  from  his  knowledge  of 
spiders.  This  knowledge  Sarto  got  from  Father 
Paul  while  he  pruned  his  hedge.  Of  the  garden 
spiders,  he  learned,  it 's  the  young  only  that  spin 
their  webs  by  day.  When  paunched  and  wise 
with  years,  they  spin  in  the  dark,  secretly,  that 
their  victims  may  be  unaware  what  snares  are  laid 
across  the  thoroughfares  of  night. 

This  from  Father  Paul.     Before  this  lesson,  I 


42  Luca  Sarto 

had  looked  upon  the  spider  withoat  abhorrence  of 
its  villainy,  but  merely  as  a  nasty  bug  with 
wonder,  chiefly,  why  Noah  had  let  it  on  the  ark. 
If  Noah  had  been  more  careful  on  the  sailing  day 
what  animals  were  coming  up  the  plank,  there  's 
many  a  pest  would  have  been  drowned.  A  cer 
tain  pest  that  bit  me  in  the  inns  is  horrid  witness 
to  Noah's  lack  of  care. 

I  found  Father  Paul  beside  his  hedge,  but,  be 
fore  I  could  utter  a  word  of  food  or  bed,  he  drew 
me  to  his  rosemary  and  bade  me  see  the  enginery 
of  his  spiders.  They  spin  before  dusk,  the 
younger  ones,  and  every  day  for  many  years 
Father  Paul  had  watched  them,  cramming  his 
head  with  minute  observation. 

"Your  banded  spider,"  he  began,  'holding  me 
empty-stomached  to  his  words,  "fills  a  space  of 
about  four  palms'  width."  Whereat  he  stretched 
forth  his  brown  hands.  "At  random,  it  appears 
to  spin,  darting  here  and  there,  touching  one  point 
and  then  another.  And  yet,  behold  its  web, 
made  to  a  nicety  and  planned,  Mon  Dieu,  with 
deadly  certainty." 

And  yet,  athwart  my  zeal  for  knowledge,  there 
came  from  an  open  kitchen  door  the  sound  of 
frying  onions.  At  this  my  attention  sagged. 


A  Mountain  Journey  43 

Here  was  a  siren.  There  was  need  of  thick 
stuffing  for  the  ears  to  keep  such  temptation  from 
their  crannies.  And  though  to  Father  Paul's 
words  I  tried  to  lash  myself,  like  Ulysses  to  his 
mast,  still  it  was  kitchenwards  I  cocked  my  ear. 
Though  I  had  been  born  brother  to  Ulysses,  such 
sounds  had  set  me  wavering. 

But  thus  much  I  learned:  The  spider  that  is 
crafty  spins  his  web  by  night,  and  behind  its  ran 
dom  masonry  is  premeditated  guile. 

You  will  mark  later  how  Louis,  King  of 
France,  spread  his  web. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  after  leaving  the  mon 
astery  of  Father  Paul  that  we  turned  an  elbow  of 
the  mountains  and  saw  the  country  of  France 
stretched  below  us  in  the  sun.  Besanc/m — Dijon 
-Tonnerre — Joigny — a  few  cities  out  of  many — 
Sens — still  we  plodded  on. 

"Michel,"  I  said,  "where  does  this  Paris  skulk1? 
It  is  a  foolish  thing  that  a  city  should  set  itself 
so  far  off  when  idle  land  is  nearer  Italy."  I  bade 
him  look  to  my  doublet.  "I  'm  fouled  like  a 
thief.  I  'm  falling  into  tatters.  My  purse  grows 
limp  like  a  dog's  ear." 

And  now  at  last  we  came  to  Paris.  So  low 
were  our  fortunes  fallen  by  this  time  that  we  were 


44  Luca  Sarto 

forced  to  range  a'bout  the  city  to  find  lodging 
inside  our  means.  Finally,  when  it  was  already 
dark  on  the  second  day  of  search  we  took  a  room 
in  a  poor  lane  along  the  river.  "We  '11  sell  our 
horses  on  the  morrow,  Michel,  and  get  me  a 
cloak  and  doublet.  I  cannot  go  to  King  Louis 
like  a  beggar.  Good  e'en,  my  lad.  To-night 
I  '11  sleep." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    KING'S    FAVOR 

ON  the  third  day  after  my  arrival  in  Paris  I 
sought  King  Louis.  I  was  amazed  by  the 
foulness  of  the  palace,  for  my  expectation  was 
tuned  by  the  magnificence  of  Rome.  I  handed 
Cardinal  Rovere's  letter  to  a  chamberlain  with  a 
request  that  he  give  it  to  the  King  to  read.  The 
chamberlain,  who  was  a  dirty  fellow,  bespittled 
down  his  front,  tapped  the  letter  questioningly. 
There  was  not  much  silver  in  my  poke,  but  I  rat 
tled  it.  "If  I  get  a  fair  answer,"  I  said,  "we  shall 
all  profit."  The  chamberlain  grinned  and  bore 
the  letter  off. 

I  set  myself  to  wait  upon  a  bench  that  ran 
along  the  wall.  There  were  a  dozen  others, 
mean  fellows  for  the  most  part.  However,  as 
I  was  myself  smirched  with  travel,  despite  my 
new  cloak  and  doublet,  I  may  have  appeared  no 
better;  although  I  could  have  smelled  no  worse. 
Indeed,  as  every  one  but  myself  was  old  and 
broken,  we  looked  not  unlike  a  row  of  pensioners 

45 


46  Luca  Sarto 

outside  a  holy-house;  needing  to  complete  the 
picture  only  pans  and  baskets  for  the  bread  and 
broken  meats  to  be  given  out.  It  was  a  rare 
occasion  when  our  members  changed.  At  such 
times,  when  one  moved  out  or  another  in,  it  was 
as  if  a  slight  ripple  went  over  our  company,  which 
otherwise  was  as  scummed  and  stagnant  as  a  pool. 

At  intervals  an  attendant  appeared,  and  just 
so  often  I  complained  of  the  delay.  It 's  the 
squeaky  wheel  that  gets  the  grease. 

For  three  mornings  I  sat  there  until  my  legs 
twitched  with  impatience,  and  then  my  answer 
came.  The  chamberlain  entered  the  room  as  I 
was  nodding. 

"Luca  Sarto?"  he  asked. 

"What  few  bones  are  left,"  I  replied.  "The 
meat 's  gone  off." 

"A  message  from  the  King."  At  this  he 
handed  me  a  scroll. 

He  smirked  and  displayed  his  yellow  teeth. 

"Methinks,"  I  answered  sourly,  "I  'm  bid  to 
dine.  I  'm  smutched  for  company,  but  I  accept." 
The  message,  however,  was  above  my  hope. 

There  was  much  flourish  at  the  start  of  the 
scroll,  which  I  mumbled  through,  but  the  kernel 
was  this:  On  me — an  artist  of  whom  he  heard 


The  King's  Favor  47 

great  things,  and  also  a  friend  of  Cardinal 
Rovere  to  whom  he  sent  his  kindest  greetings 
(amico  nostro  carissimo} — on  me  the  King  was 
pleased  to  confer  a  building  known  as  the  Palais 
Saint  Louis,  as  a  workshop  and  a  lodgment,  in 
the  hope  that  I  migfyt  consider  Paris  as  my  home. 
And  for  the  ovens  and  jewels  that  I  would  need 
in  my  work  as  goldsmith,  his  treasurer  would 
give  me  gold. 

I  turned  to  the  chamberlain  for  an  explanation 
of  my  sudden  fortune,  for  it  was  even  beyond 
my  hope.  His  grin  was  proof  that  I  had  come 
into  the  favor  of  the  King. 

"This  Palais  Saint  Louis'?"  I  asked;  "what  is 
it?" 

"An  ancient  building,"  he  replied,  "that  even 
now  was  the  home  of  Oliver  de  Bourges." 

"Do  I  move  in  on  top  of  this  Oliver*?  Are  we 
to  sleep  two  a-bed?"  I  asked. 

"You  '11  not  see  Oliver.     He  has  gone  off." 

The  chamberlain  now  gave  me  a  purse.  Yet 
itch  was  so  written  on  his  face,  that  I  gave  him 
back  two  pieces  from  it.  Also  I  gave  coins  to 
the  pensioners  on  the  bench,  as  a  comrade  should 
who  has  come  to  fortune.  I  left  them  grinning 
on  their  palms. 


48  Luca  Sarto 

The  chamberlain  and  I  set  out  together  to  find 
my  new  home.  However,  as  my  stomach  was 
queasy  for  food — I  had  been  rumbling  like  a 
wagon  on  a  bridge — we  went  by  way  of  a  certain 
bakeshop  where,  that  morning  when  I  had  lacked 
their  price,  I  had  seen  dajnties  displayed.  I 
have  a  tooth  for  sweets  and  I  stuffed  me  full. 

Around  the  corner  from  this  bakeshop  is  the 
Rue  Saint  Honore,  a  broad  street  with  merchants' 
wares  upon  it.  Being  now  so  opulent  I  went  into 
one  shop  to  inquire  for  a  cloth  that  hung  in  the 
window — it  was  a  fine  red  that  would  have  set 
me  off — but  the  chamberlain  was  so  sour  upon 
the  delay  and  fretted  so  while  I  squinted  on  the 
fabric,  that  I  marked  the  place  for  a  later  visit, 
and  came  off. 

I  did,  however,  leave  my  measure  for  a  pair  of 
boots.  "  'Fore  God,"  I  said,  for  the  chamber 
lain  was  biting  on  his  nails  and  spitting  them 
about,  while  he  nagged  me  to  hurry,  "  'fore  God, 
you  'd  have  me  barefoot  on  the  cobbles.  It  will 
take  but  a  moment  to  get  the  markings  of  my 
foot." 

We  soon  turned  down  the  Rue  de  la  Petite 
Maison,  at  the  end  of  which  we  found  the  Palais 
Saint  Louis.  It  is  a  narrow  street  with  Gothic 


The  King's  Favor  49 

buildings  falling  forward  on  it.  I  've  seen  dogs 
run  as  devious  a  course,  thrusting  their  noses  into 
courtyards  and  down  steps  to  cellar  doors,  sniffing 
for  the  city's  offal.  Of  a  truth,  to  get  the  smell 
of  the  street  a  dog's  nose  is  not  needed  on  a 
wettish  night. 

I  found,  however,  the  Palais  Saint  Louis  con 
formable  to  my  needs,  though  large  beyond 
necessity.  Of  chief  value  was  a  great  room  on 
the  ground  level,  where  already  I  marked  the 
place  where  my  ovens  would  stand.  Beyond  this 
room  lay  others  suitable  for  my  bedroom  and  for 
that  of  Michel.  Were  other  servants  needed,  or 
artizans  for  my  work,  they  might  perch  upstairs. 
Having  expressed  my  satisfaction  to  the  chamber 
lain,  who  all  this  while  tagged  me  at  the  elbow, 
I  arranged  with  him  to  send  to  the  sty  where 
Michel  was  to  be  found. 

The  rest  of  the  day  I  went  about  in  the  busi 
ness  of  getting  ovens  made.  It  is  cunning  work 
as  a  slattern  will  foul  them.  Also,  I  sought  out 
jewels  and  metals  and  what  prices  were  asked. 
Here  the  King's  treasurer  was  of  service  and 
helped  me  to  a  number  of  rubies  and  emeralds  of 
good  quality.  Nor  did  I  forget  how  smirched 
I  was.  I  had  pinched  myself  when  I  bought 


50  Luca  Sarto 

the  cloak  and  doublet,  so  I  gave  them  to  Michel. 
To  replace  them  I  went  among  the  better  shops 
and  ordered  new  clothes  of  a  plum  color.  Also, 
I  bought  the  red  fabric  that  I  told  you  of — edging 
the  merchant  off  a  bit — and  left  it  to  be  cut  and 
fitted  to  me.  It  would  set  me  off  on  Sundays. 

So  tricked,  I  would  walk  jaunty  again.  A 
sloven  coat  begets  a  sloven  mood,  and  if  one 
would  bear  a  swashing  havior,  he  must  be  dressed 
to  fit.  An  oath,  too,  has  little  fierceness,  if  there 
is  not  a  fresh  feather  in  the  hat;  so  I  bought  me 
one  of  flaring  yellow  and  tipped  it  across  my 
shoulder.  So  dressed  I  sought  a  mirror.  "Sarto, 
you  dog,"  I  thought,  "you  've  looks.  '  Faith, 
you  've  looks." 

On  my  return  from  the  shops,  Michel  informed 
me  that  the  same  chamberlain  who  had  lodged 
me  had  come  again,  and  he  had  removed  certain 
clothes  and  propepty  of  Oliver  de  Bourges,  the 
former  tenant. 

"Was  Oliver  with  him,"  I  asked,  "in  the 
packing*?" 

"No,"  Michel  replied.  "It  was  a  cart  load, 
all  tumbled  in.  Oliver,  they  say,  has  gone  from 
town." 


The  King's  Favor 


"Then  it  was  hardly  manners,"  I  said.  "They 
had  best  waited  for  his  return.  But  I  am  glad 
the  gear  is  gone." 

It  was  this  same  night  that  I  heard  again  of 
Oliver.  Having  finished  my  ovens  at  the  twi 
light,  I  dismissed  the  workmen  and  bade  Michel 
to  clear  the  rubbish  while  I  was  gone  for  dinner. 
There  is  a  cook-shop  in  the  Rue  Saint  Antoine, 
and  the  old  cook  set  out  a  gammon  of  bacon 
before  me. 

My  stomach  is  commodiously  good,  although  I 
am  not  one  to  glut  myself  with  rumps  and 
pinions.  (Too  much  meat  sets  me  to  dream.) 
Yet  this  night  my  work  had  so  hungered  me  that 
I  put  the  gammon  in  a  sorry  plight.  I  am  par 
tial  to  salt  cates,  and  I  had  these  too.  At  the 
next  table  were  Frenchmen.  Mark  this!  Here 
was  I,  hungry  like  a  gourmand,  yet  nice  in  my 
eating.  Yet  these  Frenchmen,  although  they 
dressed  in  fashion,  did  smear  their  fingers  in  their 
sauces.  And  they  ate  so  immoderately  that  the 
sound  of  it  went  about  the  room. 

I  was  fretting  with  their  manners,  when  I 
chanced  to  overhear  their  talk. 

"Oliver  is  monstrous  sour,"  said  one. 


52  Luca  Sarto 

"Ay,  and  with  good  cause,"  said  a  second. 

"The  Italian  had  best  look  to  himself,"  said 
the  third. 

I  put  down  my  knife  and  listened.  By  bad 
luck  the  last  speaker's  next  words  were  fouled 
by  his  food.  Then  I  heard  again. 

"Oliver  is  a  rare  swordsman,  and  the  King's 
disfavor,  they  say,  has  put  him  in  a  temper." 

The  talk  sheered  off  to  other  matters.  Pres 
ently  they  paid  their  reckoning  and  left  the  cook- 
shop. 

"So — so,"  I  thought,  "I  have  already  made  an 
enemy.  I  must  look  sharp  lest  this  fellow,  whose 
name  is  Oliver,  catch  me  unaware." 

I  made  an  end  of  my  food,  wiped  my  teeth 
upon  a  napkin,  paid  down  my  money,  and  came 
away. 

When  I  returned,  I  found  that  Michel  had 
cleared  the  disorder  of  the  room  and  had  lighted 
a  fire.  The  night  had  fallen  wet  and  cold,  but 
it  was  snug  within.  Bidding  Michel  to  employ 
his  leisure  in  arranging  the  kitchen  and  putting 
away  the  food  that  I  had  bought — for  it  was  my 
intention  to  eat  but  one  meal  a  day  outside — I 
set  myself  on  a  bench,  unbuttoned  myself,  and 
stretched  my  feet  to  the  fire-dogs. 


The  King's  Favor  53 

I  had  not  gone  beyond  a  yawn  or  so — a  half 
hour  maybe — when  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  loud 
rattling  at  the  street  door.  "A  visitor!"  I  cried, 
and  reached  for  my  slippers  which,  for  my  com 
fort,  I  had  put  off.  "Michel,  see  who  knocks!" 

I  drew  my  sword  and  laid  it  in  reach  across 
the  table. 


CHAPTER  V 

FROM    OUT    THE    DARK 

IT  was  a  servant  who  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
and  with  him  came  a  breath  of  damp  wind  that 
teased  the  candle.  His  haste  broke  his  errand 
to  bits  in  the  telling.  His  mistress,  he  stam 
mered,  the  Lady  Diane  Motier,  in  returning  to 
Paris  from  a  journey,  had  met  with  accident  in 
the  near-by  Rue  Saint  Honore.  Would  I  give 
her  shelter  until  her  carriage  could  be  fixed*? 

I  threw  a  cloak  about  me  and  bade  the  fellow 
show  the  way.  At  the  door  Michel  stopped  me. 
He  coughed  and  plucked  my  sleeve.  Then,  put 
ting  his  head  close  to  mine,  he  whispered,  "Master, 
have  a  care!  Remember  what  you  heard  in  the 
cook-shop!"  He  slipped  my  knife  within  my 
belt.  I  laughed  at  his  warning  and  tweaked  his 
ear,  but  I  kept  the  knife,  as  it  was  now  two  hours 
beyond  the  sunset  and  the  streets  were  dark. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Saint  Honore  the 
carriage  stood  disabled,  having  pitched  against 
the  curb  when  a  strap  was  broken.  The  travelers 

54 


From  Out  the  Dark 


were  ranged  in  a  row  beneath  a  pent  roof  —  two 
ladies  and  one  other  servant.  Folk,  too,  were 
coming  from  their  homes,  buttoning  themselves 
on  their  steps,  and  gaping  as  if  it  were  a  cart  and 
players. 

I  pushed  my  way  to  the  younger  lady  and, 
making  a  deeper  bow  than  common  that  she 
might  know  my  gentle  condition,  I  offered  my 
shelter. 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  "hell  itself  blows  raw 
in  March.  The  four  blessed  angels  that  hold  the 
winds  have  all  let  go.  Come,  ladies,  my  fire 
blazes!" 

I  gave  my  name,  too,  and  was  pleased,  al 
though  not  surprised,  that  Mademoiselle  had 
heard  of  me  and  my  goldwork.  My  fame,  it 
seems,  had  been  of  longer  breath  than  I  and  had 
passed  before  me  on  the  mountain  slopes.  Then 
setting  the  servants  at  their  task  and  telling  them 
where  they  could  find  a  leather  merchant  —  for  a 
thong  was  needed  to  splice  the  strap  —  I  led  the 
ladies  off. 

In  the  blaze  of  my  fire  I  first  saw  my  guests. 
Madame  Corday  was  the  elder  —  a  woman  of  forty 
with  a  nurse's  figure,  although  cord  and  artifice 
had  done  their  best  —  well  enough,  maybe,  in 


56  Luca  Sarto 

her  looks,  but  not  one  to  hold  a  bachelor's  gaze. 
The  other  was  the  Lady  Diane  Motier,  possibly 
of  twenty  years,  but  seemingly  no  older  than 
our  sixteen-year  Italian  women.  I  have  seen  since 
her  portrait  by  Ghirlandajo  in  the  gallery  at 
Amboise.  To  this  I  prefer  my  own  memory  as 
she  sat  in  my  firelight.  It  will  suffice  that  her 
hair  was  yellow  like  ripened  straw,  her  eyes 
blue,  and  her  profile  delicate  beyond  the  nicety 
even  of  Italian  words.  "God,"  I  thought,  "she 
is  a  comely  creature."  And  I  smoothed  my 
doublet. 

Michel  now  laid  a  cloth  and  put  on  a  salad. 
To  my  right  I  put  the  Lady  Diane,  for  so  the 
firelight  fell  best  upon  her  face.  I  let  Madame 
Corday  drink  her  wine  in  shadow. 

By  the  way  the  ladies  attacked  the  salad,  it 
appeared  they  had  had  no  dinner.  In  conse 
quence  I  sent  Michel  to  rummage  in  the  pantry 
and  to  bring  out  such  cold  meats  and  pasties  as 
he  found.  Meanwhile,  as  the  ladies  were  so 
content  with  their  feeding,  I  held  quiet  until  a 
lull  should  come.  Once  only  Madame  Corday 
spoke.  It  was  of  some  incident  in  their  journey. 
At  this  Mademoiselle  laughed.  It  was  a  pretty 
sound  and  served  as  music  to  the  feast.  But 


From  Out  the  Dark  57 

furthermore,  it  recalled  to  me  a  memory  from 
Italy.  A  flick  and  word  upon  it. 

I  have  painted  the  saints,  but  I  am  no  hooded 
Puritan.  It  is  enough  and  too  much  that  Savo 
narola,  like  a  dull  gray  thread,  should  cross  the 
gay  woof  of  life.  I  painted  a  Madonna  once 
by  flaring  light.  (It  was  in  Italy  several  years 
before  these  French  adventures — and  in  spring 
time,  when  thoughts  fly  out  the  window.)  And 
there  came  from  the  night  outside  a  woman's 
laugh  set  to  the  sound  of  a  tinkling  cithern.  And, 
God's  wounds,  while  on  the  street  below  pleasure 
went  laughing  on  its  way,  I  forgot  it  was  the 
gray-clad  woman  that  I  painted:  So  with  colors 
I  tipped  my  brushes,  and  my  Madonna's  lips 
I  parted  with  the  laughter  that  I  had  heard  upon 
the  street. 

And  now  this  French  girl's  laugh  has  recalled 
the  other.  In  that  there  is  no  special  wonder. 
But  mark  this,  for  here  is  a  strangeness  beyond 
the  six  days'  usage!  This  French  girl's  face 
resembles  the  Madonna  that  I  painted.  Her  hair 
was  the  same  color  of  ripened  straw,  and  her  eyes, 
also,  were  blue.  Smile  if  you  will  at  such  a  fancy, 
and  yet  set  it  not  aside,  for  it  will  happen  that 
consequence  will  come  from  it.  Should  you  for- 


58  Luca  Sarto 

get  it,  later  in  the  pinch  of  danger,  you  will  be 
turning  back  to  these  early  pages  for  a  clue. 

And  now  there  came  a  lull. 

"You  have  lived  in  Paris  but  a  few  days, 
Monsieur  Sarto,"  Mademoiselle  began.  "You 
see  that  we  know  of  your  affairs." 

I  bowed  at  her  speech  with  modesty  that  my 
poor  reputation,  after  jolting  through  the  coun 
try's  dust,  should  find  in  Paris  here  so  fair  a 
hostel  as  this  lady's  thoughts.  "Ah,  Made 
moiselle,"  I  concluded,  "in  Paris  I  am  misprized 
and  underset,  because  the  French  still  look  at  art 
with  lack  of  relish.  In  Rome  every  one  knows 
me.  All  who  walk  the  streets  nudge  one  another 
as  I  pass.  'Look  at  Sarto,'  they  say,  'who  goes 
to  dine  with  the  Cardinal.'  ' 

The  Lady  Diane  smiled  at  my  outburst,  but 
she  spoke  with  pique  at  the  disfavor  I  had  shown 
to  France.  "And  now  it  is  feared  you  are  too 
well  known  in  Rome,"  she  said. 

"A  point,  Mademoiselle!'  I  cried.  "Your 
rapier  touches  me.  I  see  you  know  what  took  me 
out  of  Italy.  Cardinal  Rovere  and  I  are  friends. 
I  could  not  do  less  than  avenge  his  nephew. 
Michel,  you  '11  pass  Mademoiselle  the  pasty." 

Then  I  turned  the  talk,  for  blood  is  a  bad  ap- 


From   Out  the  Dark  59 

petizer  for  food.  By  way  of  compliment — for  in 
me  lies  a  weakness  for  a  pretty  phrase — I  told 
her  that  I  had  fetched  the  same  sword  along,  and 
that  the  use  of  it  was  hers  for  the  asking.  Such 
offers,  of  course,  are  the  coinage  of  courtesy. 
They  are  as  far  from  real  intent  as  fish  from  nuts. 

The  Lady  Diane  became  grave,  and  I  thought 
that  she  looked  at  me  in  searching  fashion. 
"Monsieur,"  she  asked,  "is  now  for  the  first  time 
in  France?" 

"My  very  first,"  I  answered. 

But  Mademoiselle  tossed  her  head  as  if  to  dis 
miss  a  thought.  There  was,  too,  an  exchange  of 
glances  between  her  and  Madame  Corday.  For 
a  moment  I  paused,  it  perchance  this  secret 
commerce  might  bring  forth  words.  But  issue 
having  failed,  I  spoke  again. 

"I  can  offer  you  but  meager  hospitality,  yet 
Michel  toasts  cheese  to  a  turn.  Will  Madame 
have  a  bit*?  I  've  been  here  but  a  bare  three  days, 
and  it  takes  longer  than  that  to  set  up  even  a 
bachelor."  Then  I  added:  "By  chance  you 
may  know  Oliver  de  Bourges.  The  house  was 
his." 

"His!"  exclaimed  Madame  Corday.  "That 
sets  the  matter  right.  I  thought  I  knew  this 


60  Luca  Sfirto 

room.  I  was  here  once,  Diane,  as  you  know, 
when  Oliver  lived  here.  It  was  six  years  ago." 

"Is  this  Oliver,"  I  interposed,  "so  fierce*?  He 
has  sworn  he  will  pink  me  for  usurping  him.  In 
fact,  when  your  servant  came  rattling  my  door,  I 
thought  it  might  be  Oliver  to  begin  a  quarrel." 
I  pointed  to  my  sword.  "If  he  proves  a  ruffler, 
here  is  my  answer." 

Madame  Corday's  face  clouded,  and  she 
pointed  to  the  door,  which  was  open  to  the  night. 
Before  I  closed  it  I  peered  into  the  street  and  lis 
tened,  for  a  sharp-set  ear  is  worth  a  suit  of  chain. 
There  was  no  sound  but  the  fall  of  the  rain,  ex 
cept  it  was  the  watchman's  round,  and  his  whin 
ing  cry,  "By  Christ's  Sepulchre,  all 's  safe." 
Then  I  came  back  to  the  table. 

Madame  Corday  turned  to  the  Lady  Diane. 
"You  have  heard  of  this  room?"  Whereat  the 
girl  nodded,  yet,  chiefly,  her  assent  was  but  curi 
osity  for  what  Madame  Corday  was  about  to  say. 

Again  spoke  the  woman  in  the  shadow.  "To 
this  room,  Diane,  I  came  one  night,  six  years  ago, 
to  meet  your  brother  and  Oliver." 

Then  the  woman  in  the  firelight:  "It  is 
strange,  that  on  this  night  of  all  others  we  should 
happen  to  be  here  again."  But  quickly  the 


From   Out  the  Dark  61 

shadowed  woman  silenced  her.  For  myself,  I 
wondered  what,  unchecked,  she  would  have  said. 
Their  words  had  been  commonplace  enough,  yet 
something  lurked  in  the  unspoken  shadows.  It 's 
a  plague  to  feel  that  something  is  in  the  air  and 
that  you  know  not  what  it  is.  Here  was  Madame 
Corday  shaking  her  finger  and  shuffling  with  her 
feet. 

"This  night  of  all  others."  Mademoiselle  had 
stressed  the  words.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
horseman  who  had  gone  riding  from  Rouen,  nor 
of  Duke  John  who  was  sitting  late  in  Paris,  nor 
of  the  King's  archer  who  swung  between  the 
wheels.  These  things,  had  I  known  it,  were  the 
first  patter  of  a  storm. 

Mademoiselle  was  the  first  to  speak.  "So 
Oliver  has  threatened  you?"  Then  in  a  moment: 
"Why  should  the  King  of  France  be  so  careless 
of  offending  Oliver?  There  are  other  buildings 
suited  to  your  lodgment.  It 's  plain  why  the 
King  honors  you.  You  are  an  artist,  and,  what 's 
more,  a  friend  of  Rovere.  But  the  King  stirs 
Oliver  against  you.  I  have  myself  no  answer, 
Monsieur  Sarto,  but  we  move  in  dangerous  times." 

We  fell  to  silence.  Suddenly  Madame  Corday 
spoke.  "Did  Oliver  ever  visit  you,  Monsieur 


62  Luca  Sarto 

Sarto?"  Whereat  my  answer  "no"  served  as 
kindling  to  her  thoughts.  Presently  she  asked, 
"Did  Oliver  himself  move  his  gear*?"  She 
seemed  tense  for  my  answer. 

"Of  a  truth,  Madame,  I  'm  told  he  was  not  in 
Paris  at  the  time.  Oliver  had  not  so  much  as  a 
servant  present." 

Madame  Corday  was  about  to  reply — then 
hesitated.  At  last,  as  though  with  effort,  she 
spoke.  "Monsieur  Sarto,  I  am  about  to  ask  an 
unusual  request.  I  wish  to  visit  the  room  that 
was  once  Oliver's  bedroom.  I  wish  to  go  alone." 

"Assuredly,  Madame,"  was  my  reply,  and  yet 
my  lifted  eyebrows  must  have  showed  surprise. 

With  a  feeling  of  the  greatest  curiosity  I  lighted 
a  taper,  and  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  anteroom 
that  leads  to  my  own  room.  "It  is  the  second 
room  beyond,"  I  said. 

Madame  Corday  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
light.  "I  must  go  alone,"  was  all  she  said. 

I  allowed  her  to  pass,  and  she  drew  the  door 
closed  behind  her,  although  it  nearly  caught  my 
intruding  nose.  I  turned  with  a  question  upon 
the  Lady  Diane,  who  stood  within  the  firelight. 

It  was  fear — of  a  certainty,  it  was  fear  I  saw 
upon  her  face. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    TREASURE    IN    THE    CUPBOARD 

WELL,  Mademoiselle,"  I  cried,  "what  is  this 
business?"     But   the  Lady  Diane   stood 
listening  without  reply. 

"It  concerns  me  or  my  brother,"  she  said  at 
length.  She  paused.  "It  concerns,  maybe,  the 
night  six  years  ago  when  Madame  Corday  came 
here  of  a  visit.  That  happened  before  I  came 
to  Paris.  I  am  of  Burgundy." 

"What  does  Madame  seek?"  I  persisted. 

"That 's  what  I  'm  trying  to  think,"  she  re 
plied.  "Something  of  Oliver's  left  in  the  mov 
ing;  some  paper  of  import,  it  is  likely.  But  I 
know  not  what." 

We  were  standing  meantime  with  our  eyes  on 
the  door  through  which  Madame  Corday  had  gone, 
as  though  it  were  a  curtain  of  a  raree-show  that 
was  about  to  start.  Yet  it  was  more  than  a  penny 
curiosity  that  held  us.  It  was  plain  that  Made 
moiselle  was  as  puzzled  as  I.  But  presently  a 
lock  of  hair  slipped  off  her  ear  and  dangled  pret 
tily. 

63 


64  Luca  Sarto 

I  turned  upon  my  heel.  The  fire  was  burn 
ing  ill,  for  the  wet  wood  steamed  at  the  ends. 
Rain,  also,  splattered  down  the  chimney.  To 
mend  the  trouble,  I  lifted  a  log  from  the  box,  and 
was  about  to  throw  it  on.  I  stopped  half  way. 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  "perhaps  you  heard  a 
sound*?"  I  rested  the  log  upon  the  hearth,  and 
waved  a  gesture  toward  the  street. 

She  turned  her  regard  as  I  indicated.  ''There  's 
rain  outside,"  she  replied,  "and  I  get  the  sound 
of  some  one  in  the  street.  Naught  else." 

My  own  ear  had  caught  the  sound.  There 
were  light  steps  upon  the  flags  before  the  door. 
I  would  not  have  thought  of  it  except  that 
Madame  Corday  had  wrought  upon  me  by  her 
dark  behavior.  She  had  stirred  me,  not  exactly 
to  a  boggle — God's  face,  Sarto  is  not  one  to  go 
pale  if  there  comes  a  squeaking  in  the  night — yet, 
of  a  truth,  her  strange  actions  had  set  me  on  my 
edge. 

I  told  Michel  to  stop  his  clatter  with  the  dishes, 
and  I  listened.  Then  putting  my  ringer  on  my 
lips,  I  went  a  tip-toe  to  the  street  door  and  put 
my  ear  upon  it. 

On  a  sudden  I  jerked  it  open. 

I    know    not    what    I    had    expected.     Oliver 


A   Treasure  in  the  Cupboard          65 

maybe.  But  I  was  mistaken.  As  the  door  flew 
open,  a  man,  who  had  been  crouching  there, 
pitched  forward  on  his  face.  He  was  dressed  as 
a  king's  archer,  but  was  so  slopped  with  mud  that 
the  original  cloth  scarce  showed.  He  sprawled 
upon  the  floor,  and  his  bonnet  rolled  off.  It  wa? 
when  he  tried  to  raise  himself  that  his  troubk 
appeared.  His  legs  wobbled  and  there  was  a 
silly  grin  upon  his  face.  He  leered  at  me  and 
Mademoiselle.  He  was  soused  with  drink. 

Once  up,  he  lifted  a  finger  and  waggled  it  at 
us.  His  speech  was  thick.  Michel  had  set  down 
the  dishes  and  needed  but  a  nod  to  seize  the 
fellow.  I  held  the  door  open  and  he  pitched 
him  to  the  gutter. 

I  turned  to  offer  amends  to  Mademoiselle. 
She  stopped  me  at  the  first  word.  "Monsieur 
Sarto,"  she  said,  "perhaps  you  noticed  that  the 
fellow  was  an  archer  of  the  King." 

"A  sot  is  a  sot,  dear  lady.  This  is  not  a  tavern. 
He  mistook  the  door.  He  '11  have  no  memory  of 
the  place  to-morrow." 

Michel  rested  his  pan  of  dishes  on  the  table. 
"Master,"  he  said,  "may  I  speak  a  word1?  The 
fellow  was  as  sober  as  myself." 

"Eh?" 


66  Luca  Sarto 

"There  was  no  smell  of  liquor  on  his  breath." 

"There  is  proof  at  hand,"  I  cried.  "If  drunk, 
he  '11  still  be  lying  in  the  gutter." 

I  ran  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  By  the 
light  from  the  doorway  I  saw  that  the  gutter  was 
empty.  If  drunk,  the  fellow  had  been  spry,  for 
there  was  no  sound  of  him.  He  had  cleared  the 
corner  like  a  hound.  Yet  what  did  it  matter? 
He  was  meddling  on  my  doorstep  and  he  had  met 
a  just  reception. 

I  set  the  bolts.  If  there  were  other  rufflers  on 
the  street,  drunk  or  sober,  they  had  best  stay  out. 

The  fact  that  the  fellow  had  made  off — al 
though  it  seemed  a  good  riddance — troubled 
Mademoiselle.  And  for  reasons  not  known  to 
me,  she  fretted  with  it.  She  gave  me  no  more 
than  a  monosyllable,  and  sulked  by  the  fire  against 
all  my  efforts. 

This  lady's  eyes  are  blue.  Heigho!  Tra-la! 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug!  Sarto,  you  fool,  methinks  the 
spring  is  here. 

It  was  scarcely  five  minutes  before  Madame 
Corday  reappeared.  She  came  empty-handed  and 
bore  a  look  of  annoyance. 

"Madame,"  I  asked,  laughing,  "did  you  find  a 


A   Treasure  in  the  Cupboard  67 

treasure1?     Shall  we  search  the  cupboard  now*?" 

But  Madame  would  not  share  my  jest.  She 
offered  no  word  of  explanation,  nor  could  I  see 
that  she  exchanged  any  sign  with  the  Lady  Diane. 

And  now  Mademoiselle  was  obviously  fretting 
at  her  delay.  Twice  she  looked  from  the  win 
dow.  "What  think  you,  Madame?"  she  asked, 
"It  grows  late." 

But  their  servant  came  at  last  to  the  door. 
The  carriage  had  been  fixed.  It  was  but  man 
ners  that  I  accompanied  the  ladies  down  the  lane 
and  put  them  inside  it.  As  I  was  shutting  the 
door  of  the  vehicle,  Mademoiselle  stayed  me. 

"Your  servant  seems  a  shrewd  fellow,"  she 
said.  "Do  you  think  the  archer  was  sober?" 

"It 's  likely  enough,"  I  replied. 

She  paused.  "Monsieur,  it  was  a  jest,  me- 
thinks,  when  you  offered  us  your  help?" 

"Dear  lady,  I  spoke  no  jest.  Once  this  might 
have  been  a  jest,  but  time  has  made  it  serious." 

"One  short  hour?"  she  answered,  smiling,  but 
she  was  not  displeased. 

She  extended  her  fingers,  and  I  kissed  them. 
"For  what  you  have  done  to-night,  thanks," 
she  said.  "I  shall  keep  your  kindness  in  my 


68  Luc  a  Sarto 

memory."  She  hesitated.  "Later  I  shall  ask 
occasion  to  thank  you  better."  She  closed  the 
door  and  the  vehicle  started. 

The  Rue  Saint  Honore  still  showed  a  few 
lights,  and  I  waited  to  see  the  carriage  out  of 
sight.  At  the  corner  where  there  would  be  the 
last  of  it,  was  a  glare  from  a  window.  Perchance, 
if  Mademoiselle  were  gracious  enough  to  wave 
her  kerchief  I  would  see  it  when  they  turned. 

The  Carriage  neared  the  corner  and  came  in  the 
flare  of  light.  It  turned  and  made  off  to  the  left. 
But  no  kerchief  showed.  I  observed,  however, 
that  at  a  distance  behind  the  carriage  and  in  the 
shadow  of  the  buildings,  the  figure  of  a  man 
followed  after.  Presently  it  came  under  the 
light.  All  cats  may  be  gray  at  night,  yet,  of  a 
sureness,  it  was  the  muddled  archer,  for  I  saw 
his  bonnet  bobbing  on  his  head. 

The  carriage  and  the  archer  passed  from 
sight,  leaving  me  biting  my  lips  with  indecision. 
But  there  was  naught  that  I  could  do.  I  could 
not  overtake  them.  Nor  could  I  find  them,  as  I 
knew  not  the  way  they  went.  Furthermore, 
there  were  two  servants  on  the  carriage,  if  the 
archer  contrived  mischief.  So  I  came  away. 

Michel     was    waiting    outside    my    door.      It 


A   Treasure  in  the  Cupboard  69 

seemed  that  he  had  been  puzzling  with  the  thought 
of  the  intruder.  As  I  came  up,  he  stood  with 
his  back  close  against  the  door.  "It 's  so,"  he 
said,  "that  one  gets  protection  from  the  rain." 

"What  of  it?"  I  asked. 

Michel  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Did  you 
mark,"  he  asked,  "that  the  fellow  fell  forward  on 
his  face?" 

"And  what  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"This,  Master;  that  if  the  fellow  were  standing 
here  to  keep  dry,  he  would  have  fallen  on  his  back 
when  yon  jerked  the  door  open." 

"So?     What  is  your  thought  upon  it?" 

"I  think,  Master,  that  the  fellow  came  to 
listen." 

"Why  should  a  king's  archer  spy  on  Sarto?" 

A  shrewd  look  came  to  Michel's  face.  "May 
hap,"  he  said,  "it  was  on  Mademoiselle  he  came 
to  spy." 

But  I  was  not  minded  to  discuss  the  matter 
further  and,  although  he  was  bursting  with  his 
theories,  I  dismissed  him  for  the  night.  He 
turned  on  the  threshold.  "Master,"  he  said, 
"may  I  have  another  word?" 

I  nodded.     "Be  brief!" 

"You  '11  hear  of  this  mademoiselle'  again,"  he 


70  Luc  a  Sarto 

said.  Then  he  scratched  his  head  and  went  off 
mumbling  to  himself. 

When  he  was  gone,  however,  my  mind  did  re 
vert  to  the  strange  things  that  had  happened  in 
the  evening.  Putting  aside  further  thought  of 
the  muddied  archer,  whose  coming  I  still  could  not 
but  think  was  a  piece  of  chance  quite  unrelated 
either  with  myself  or  these  lady  visitors,  I  quested 
back  to  the  other  events. 

Was  it  not  an  ill  fortune  that  the  King  by  his 
gift  of  the  Palais  Saint  Louis  had  roused  a  ruffler 
against  me?  Oliver,  I  had  been  told,  was  a  man 
of  consequence.  He  controlled  a  faction  much 
needed  by  the  King.  Yet  it  was  said  that  the 
King  grudged  him  his  favors,  and  would  over 
throw  him  when  matters  ripened  to  occasion. 
There  were  many  buildings  in  Paris  suited  to  my 
purpose,  and  yet  I  had  got  Oliver's.  Was  it  the 
King's  purpose  to  set  us  snapping  at  each  other'? 
If  matters  came  to  violence,  how  would  it  affect 
the  issue*?  If  I  were  struck  down  unaware,  it 
would  give  the  King  the  chance  to  weep  upon  my 
wrongs,  and  also  a  proper  pretext  to  throw  Oliver 
out  of  favor.  Nor  would  the  King  grieve  if  I 
killed  Oliver.  Both  sides  of  the  coin  were  heads. 
Ah,  me!  The  question  was  too  deep.  Or  were 


A   Treasure  in  the  Cupboard          71 

the   Orsini   concerned   to   pitch   me   in   a  brawl"? 

I  was  curious  to  learn  what  Madame  Corday 
had  sought  in  Oliver's  bedroom.  A  chair  had 
been  moved  from  the  wall,  and  a  tapestry  was 
awry.  But  there  were  no  other  marks  of  search. 
I  might  as  well  have  looked  for  Prester  John,  for 
my  quest  was  without  results. 

"It  was  six  years  ago,"  I  mused,  "when  this 
Madame  Corday  paid  her  former  visit!  That 
brings  it  to  the  year  fourteen  sixty-five." 

Fourteen  sixty-five?  Great  things  had  hap 
pened  in  that  year  in  France,  the  whifT  and  scent 
of  which  had  crossed  the  Alps.  It  had  been  the 
time  of  the  Common  Weal,  when  the  great  vassals 
of  Louis  had  rebelled.  It  had  been  a  year  of 
broil.  The  battle  of  MontPhery  had  been  fought 
outside  Paris,  with  Count  Charles  of  Burgundy 
against  the  King — July  16,  1465.  Later  there 
had  been  a  peace  cobbled  between  Louis  and 
the  barons.  So  far  my  ponderings  got,  and  no 
further,  except  that  the  Lady  Diane  was  a  Bur- 
gundian,  and  that  Burgundy  had  always  felt 
sourness  toward  the  King. 

I  put  out  all  the  candles  save  one.  Then  I 
laid  aside  my  jacket  of  blue  sarcenet,  which  I  had 
bought  of  a  shopkeeper  on  the  Seine,  and,  setting 


J2  Luca  Sarto 

myself  on  the  bench,  with  feet  to  the  fire-dogs,  I 
lost  myself  in  thought. 

My  thoughts  at  night  fly  back  to  Italy.  Me- 
thinks  that  when  a  flight  of  birds  goes  off  within 
the  twilight,  it  is  the  thoughts  of  exiles  winging 
home.  I  sat  thus  during  a  candle  inch.  Then  I 
took  down  my  copy  of  "La  Vita  Nuova."  It  is 
not  a  smeared  and  printed  book  from  Mainz,  but 
is  copied  fair  in  cloister,  and  enlumined  like  a 
psalter.  I  read  until  Paris  sank  to  the  monotone 
of  the  rain — for  the  wind  had  fallen.  And  so 
until  the  taper  flickered  and  it  was  midnight. 
Then  I  closed  the  book,  and  put  it  carefully  under 
my  extra  quilt  on  the  shelf,  so  that  it  would  be 
safe  from  dust,  and  groped  my  way  to  bed. 

I  dreamed  that  I  painted  in  a  stone  room,  with 
flaring  light,  and  heard  through  the  night  a 
woman's  laugh  that  was  made  of  the  metal 
whereof  the  stars  are  compounded.  But  through 
my  dreams  there  was  a  kind  of  fear,  impalpable 
and  strange.  I  cannot  tell  you  more,  except  that 
the  woman's  laughter,  on  a  sudden,  turned  to  ice, 
and  that  I  awoke  clammy  at  the  change.  The 
bells  of  Notre  Dame  were  ringing  across  Paris  at 
the  time,  and  one  was  cracked  and  flat.  Then  I 
slept  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

I    AM    SUMMONED    TO    THE    KING    ' 

IT  was  late  when  I  awoke.  The  storm  had 
cleared  and  sunlight  slanted  between  the 
buildings.  Here  was  May  come  at  last.  A  south 
wind  brought  rumors  of  the  fragrant  earth. 

As  I  had  now  my  ovens  set  up  and  had 
bought  the  hammers  that  my  work  required, 
I  was  desirous  of  making  some  beautiful  orna 
ment  which  I  might  present  to  the  King.  It 
would  serve  as  a  mark  of  gratitude  and  might 
bring  me  such  favorable  notice  as  would  better 
my  fame  and  fortune.  I  would  show  these 
Frenchmen  that  an  artist  had  come  among  them. 

I  had  brought  with  me  from  Italy  a  quantity 
of  drawings  and  sketches  and  several  small  models 
in  wood.  These  I  laid  out  before  me.  As  I 
owned  only  ten  pounds  of  silver,  scarcely  two 
pounds  of  gold,  and  not  more  than  six  stones  of 
any  fineness,  I  was  required  to  choose  a  design 
that  did  not  fall  beyond  my  poverty.  With 
free  range,  my  choice  would  have  been  a  silver 

73 


74  Luca  Sarto 

chalice  with  a  figure  of  Apollo  on  the  top,  and  a 
scroll  of  oak  leaves  around  the  side.  However, 
it  would  have  taken  not  less  than  thirty  pounds 
of  silver,  which  was  so  far  beyond  my  means  that 
I  unwillingly  gave  up  thought  of  it.  Then  I  be 
thought  me  of  a  great  salt-cellar  for  the  King's 
table.  It  would  have  been  of  rare  beauty,  for 
I  had  spent  much  time  upon  the  drawings,  and  its 
making  would  have  gained  me  great  honor.  Yet 
in  my  haste  in  leaving  Italy  I  had  neglected  to 
bring  a  certain  fine  hammer  and,  although  I  had 
inquired,  it  was  not  to  be  found  in  Paris.  So  I 
gave  up  thoughts  of  the  salt-cellar. 

Having  cast  about  among  my  drawings,  I 
finally  settled  upon  a  reliquary.  It  would  be 
three  thumbs  in  length  and  my  two  pounds  of 
gold  would  answer  for  it.  I  had  a  composition 
for  the  cover  which  would  set  off  my  ruby  to  ad 
vantage. 

Having  made  this  choice,  I  laid  out  a  flat  piece 
of  gold  of  a  size  that  would  do  for  the  lower 
part  of  the  box,  and  took  the  hammers  that 
were  suited.  Then  I  put  on  my  apron  and  went 
to  work.  Within  half  an  hour  my  hammer  was 
making  as  merry  a  tune  as  ever  gladdened  a  gold 
smith. 


I  Am  Summoned  to  the  King         75 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  my  mind  was  ab 
sent  from  my  task.  It  was  on  Mademoiselle. 
My  window  being  open,  I  had  heard  a  lout  go  by, 
humming  a  song,  "Vrai  Dieu  d? Amour  "  which 
was  then  sung  all  about  the  streets  of  Paris.  I 
caught  the  lilt  from  him  and  I  tapped  my  ham 
mers  to  it.  But  of  my  task  I  thought  not,  nor 
of  Oliver,  nor  the  King,  nor  of  politics. 

If,  indeed,  I  had  been  asked  about  French 
politics,  in  my  few  days'  stay  in  Paris,  I  could 
have  told  no  more  than  that  there  was  a  stoop- 
shouldered  king  on  the  gilt  throne  of  France,  by 
the  name  of  Louis  the  Eleventh,  and  that  some 
where  in  Burgundy,  in  revolt,  was  a  Duke  Charles, 
the  son  of  Philip  the  Good,  who  sent  night 
mares  across  the  kingly  dreams.  Duke  Charles 
was  greatly  feared  by  the  people  of  Paris,  and 
tremulous  were  their  nightcaps  pillowed  all  about 
the  city.  I  have  heard  servant-women  telling 
children  that  they  must  cease  their  cries  or  Charles 
the  Rash  would  get  them,  as  though  he  were  a 
bear  from  the  mountains. 

If  it  interest  you  to  know  more  of  politics, 
there  went  a  tale  about,  that  since  last  winter, 
when  the  Dauphin  had  been  born,  Louis's  brother, 
the  Duke  of  Guienne,  who  till  then  had  pranked 


76  Luca  Sarto 

himself  as  next  succeeding  to  the  crown  of  France, 
had  grown  monstrous  peevish.  That  Tc  Deum, 
with  all  its  joyful  bells  a-ringing,  had  been  a 
doleful  sound  to  him.  And  now  gossip  had  it 
that  Louis  must  look  sharp,  or  else  this  brother 
would  fall  off  and  join  issue  with  the  dreadful 
Charles.  This  thought  sent  a  shudder  to  the 
narrowest  alleyways,  as  all  remembered  the  slim 
months  of  siege,  when  Paris  walls  had  been  in 
vested  roundabout,  and  all  the  hunger  of  that  time. 
Other  gossip,  too,  there  was,  playing  with  repu 
tations  its  untiring  game  of  racquets,  howbeit  my 
pen  is  not  nibbed  for  such  sportive  stuff.  Among 
this  gossip  there  was  a  rumor  that  Oliver  de 
Bourges  had  paid  his  addresses  to  the  Lady  Diane 
Motier  and  had  been  rejected. 

To  write  of  bigger  matters:  England  lay  to 
the  north,  fretting  with  her  York  and  Lan 
castrian  wars.  Edward  now,  Henry  now,  for 
King — turn  and  turn  about — as  battles  shifted. 
Edward  was  married  to  the  sister  of  Burgundy. 
Henry's  wife  was  a  kinswoman  of  King  Louis. 
But  it  was  a  snivelling  England,  from  whose  coat- 
of-arms  there  had  recently  been  snatched  the 
fleurs-de-lis  pinned  there  by  Henry  in  the  days  of 
Agincourt — an  England  that  was  impatient,  there- 


/  Am  Summoned  to  the  King         77 

fore,  to  roam  again  the  French  fields,  to  gather 
once  more  the  French  posies.  A  pretty  taste  had 
England  for  a  boutonniere  of  lilies. 

Italy?  Who  need  write  what  all  are  sure  to 
know?  Paul  II  was  Pope,  but  declining  to  his 
death.  Rovere  and  the  Orsini  scowled  at  one 
another  when  they  met,  and  bit  their  thumbs. 
Naples  was,  as  ever,  turbulent.  There  a  man's 
life,  at  most,  was  valued  as  the  breath  of  a  lame 
horse.  But  Lorenzo  empurpled  Florence. 

But  what  were  such  things  to  me?  My  ovens 
and  my  hammers  absorbed  my  attention.  Per 
haps  I  would  have  given  more  thought  to  French 
politics  had  I  known  how  soon  and  how  deeply 
I  would  be  enmeshed  in  its  intrigue.  Of  Paris 
that  lay  beyond  the  Rue  de  la  Petite  Maison  I 
knew  nothing,  except  that  it  was  bright  by  day  and 
black  by  night.  And  yet  I  was  on  the  threshold 
of  things  to  come. 

At  midday  a  king's  servant — from  the  King, 
mark  you,  that  same  Louis  the  Eleventh,  whose 
back  was  as  crooked  as  his  purpose — came  to  my 
door  and  drew  from  his  cloak  a  lead  figure  of  a 
saint.  I  looked  at  it  scornfully,  for  I  thought  it 
was  the  fellow's  own,  a  trifle  for  a  lackey's  prayers 
and  kitchen  piety.  What  was  my  surprise,  when 


78  Luca  Sarto 

he  explained  that  it  belonged  to  his  master !  This 
gave  it  importance,  and  I  regarded  it  with  closer 
attention. 

"See,"  he  said,  "it  is  twisted.  His  Majesty 
wishes  you  to  repair  it  and  to  return  it  to  him 
yourself  in  his  cabinet  this  night." 

When  he  had  gone,  I  took  the  image  in  both 
my  hands,  and  then  and  there  I  straightened  it. 
One  twist  and  it  was  done.  Thereat  I  ran  to  the 
door,  and  I  bawled  up  the  street.  The  lackey 
had  been  too  quick.  Already  he  had  skipped  from 
sight,  and  my  shouts  served  but  to  draw  upon  me 
frowns  from  my  neighbors  across  the  way — which, 
rest  you,  I  answered  fittingly.  So  I  came  back, 
and  thrust  the  figure  down  upon  my  bench,  and 
put  my  cunning  on  my  nicer  work.  All  day  I 
went  hammering  on.  If  I  cast  a  thought  upon  the 
leaden  saint,  face  downward  in  the  litter,  it  was 
with  wonder  that  so  paltry  a  mannikin  had  been 
given  to  my  care. 

And  yet  I  was  somewhat  glad.  It  gave  me 
occasion  of  paying  my  respects  to  the  King,  and 
something  might  lie  beneath.  It 's  well  to  heed 
the  slightest  breath  of  potentates. 

So,  as  the  day  advanced,  I  fell  more  to  thinking 
on  the  King  and  what  my  summons  boded.  Per- 


/  Am  Summoned  to  the  King         79 

haps,  beneath  so  sour  a  rind,  the  melon  might  be 
sweet. 

I  ate  an  early  supper,  and  at  nineteen  of  the 
clock,  while  there  was  yet  an  hour  of  dusk  till 
candle-time,  I  set  out  with  Michel  upon  my 
summons.  By  God's  mercy,  my  new  clothes  had 
come  home  before  twilight,  and  Sarto  was  a  pretty 
sight.  I  wore  my  plum  doublet  with  black 
scarf  and  hose,  and  a  yellow  feather  in  my  hat. 

It  is  brief  time  that  King  Louis  spends  in 
Paris,  as  Plessis-lez-Tours  in  the  country  of  the 
Loire  is  his  favorite  seat.  When  he  does  honor 
Paris,  his  palace  is  the  Hotel  des  Tournelles.  It 
was  toward  this  we  went. 

Michel  kept  in  front  and  made  question  of  the 
way.  He  has  little  French,  but  he  speaks  it  loud 
and  waves  his  arms  like  Dutch  windmills.  If  at 
first  he  gets  no  proper  answer,  he  bawls  his  mes 
sage  down  his  victim's  ear.  Those  he  questions, 
though  perhaps  they  get  no  notion  what  he  wants, 
yet  give  him  an  answer  quick,  lest  they  be  struck 
in  the  gust.  It  is  best  to  start  him  off,  they  think, 
although  wrong.  Therefore  it  was  roundabout 
we  went.  It  was  early,  so  I  cared  little. 

The  streets  were  mostly  narrow  and  winding. 
In  the  doorways  men  sprawled  after  supper, 


80  Luca  Sarto 

breathing  the  evening  air.  Some  jigged  children 
on  their  knees.  Here  and  again,  a  woman,  sweat 
ing  with  the  kitchen,  gave  a  finger  to  a  child  that 
clung  about  her  skirt.  A  youth  went  by,  smooth 
ing  his  upper  lip,  with  thoughts  upon  a  wench. 

There  was  no  sound  of  music.  In  Rome,  on 
such  a  night,  there  would  have  been  a  strum  and 
tinkle  up  from  every  street.  Sarto's  voice  is  rough 
and  his  fingers  are  not  apt  upon  the  frets,  but  on 
such  a  night  in  Italy  there  would  have  a  love- 
tune  upon  his  lips,  did  he  sing  it  to  a  fish-wife. 
In  Paris  the  ballad-mongers  must  be  sure  to  starve, 
for  the  people  are  most  unmusical  and  disjoint 
of  tune. 

We  had  walked  for  half  an  hour  and  the  streets 
were  almost  dark.  We  had  got  beyond  the  place 
where  men  lay  out,  and  had  come  into  a  tangled 
nest  of  streets,  the  river  lying  close  upon  our 
right.  Here  was  a  touch  of  Naples,  for  a  drunk 
ard  slept  in  a  gutter,  and  once  there  were  cries 
from  a  basement  entry.  In  such  circumstance, 
Sarto  turns  the  corners  wide  and  keeps  his  fingers 
on  his  hilt.  Michel's  prattle  fell  off.  He  was 
content,  now,  to  keep  behind  my  cloak. 

Soon  we  came  upon  an  open  square  and  were 
before  the  Palace  of  the  Towers.  At  the  gate 


I  Am  Summoned  to  the  King         81 

were  Scotch  guards  in  kilts.  I  poked  Michel  in 
his  ribs  to  keep  him  from  laughing  outright. 
Then  we  went  within.  We  traversed  a  passage, 
while  three  Scotsmen  whined  my  name  to  those 
in  front.  Michel  was  now  told  to  wait  and  I  was 
sent  forward  into  a  vestibule  of  the  King's  apart 
ment.  By  the  light  from  a  single  taper,  I  could 
see  that  the  furnishings  were  crude,  befitting  a 
merchant's  dwelling. 

Ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed,  a  good  half  hour, 
then  a  door  was  opened  and  I  was  told  to  enter. 
It  was  a  Gothic  room  into  which  I  came.  The 
lights  were  shaded  with  hangings,  so  that  its  re 
moter  parts  lay  in  obscurity.  In  the  draught  from 
the  door  these  hangings  swayed,  and  their  shadows 
played  at  cat  and  mouse.  On  the  walls  were 
tapestries  depicting  the  Crusades.  Beyond  was 
an  altar  with  its  figures  and  vessels,  which  were 
of  a  rough  workmanship  that  made  my  fingers  itch. 
I  stood  for  a  moment,  thinking  I  was  its  only 
occupant,  and  my  eyes  traveled  to  the  details  of 
the  room's  carved  panels,  when  I  was  startled  by 
a  sharp-pitched  voice  from  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    SPIDER 

IF  you  never  met  a  king,  you  will  to-night.  But 
I  '11  not  dress  him  up  in  jewels  and  velvet. 
It 's  the  king  of  fustian  that  I  give  you.  If  he 
washed  his  ears,  he  would  be  a  sweeter  trencher 
comrade. 

"Luca  Sarto,"  the  voice  said.  I  squinted  into 
the  darkness,  and  I  saw  an  old  man  in  an  arm 
chair,  leaning  forward  with  his  chin  on  his  hand. 
I  dropped  at  once  to  my  knee.  "Your  Majesty," 
I  said. 

In  my  life  I  have  come  face  to  face  twice  with 
King  Louis  the  Eleventh.  Twice  I  have  meas 
ured  my  wit  against  his,  and  this  first  encounter 
was  to  help  me  face  the  dangers  of  the  second. 

During  several  minutes  I  awaited  his  speech. 
He  was  heavily  set  in  a  Spanish  chair,  and  it  was 
the  only  handsome  thing  about,  except  the  tracings 
of  the  vaulted  roof.  The  chair-back  was  covered 
with  elfs,  or  angels  maybe,  though  they  had  no 

harps.     Their  mouths  were  open  as  in  a  choir. 

82 


The  Spider  83 

It  was  woolen  knitted  stuff  that  Louis  wore, 
black  cloth  and  frayed  fur  on  the  edge.  On  his 
feet  were  pointed  slippers,  with  flaps  curled  back 
ragged.  He  wore  a  cap  pulled  tight  upon  his 
ears.  His  scraggy  hair  escaped.  On  the  vizor 
of  this  greasy  cap  was  a  row  of  lead  saints,  like 
politicians  awaiting  audience  on  the  porches  of 
the  Vatican — and  yet  one  was  gone. 

There  was  an  angel  on  the  chair-back  that  did 
not  sing,  but  grinned  on  Louis.  Godamercy, 
there  was  fair  excuse.  It  gives  me  trust  that  there 
is  humor  up  in  heaven.  If  there  are  laughter  and 
merry  tunes  above,  I  may  take  the  church's  hood 
myself. 

The  lead  figures  on  his  cap  recalled  my  errand, 
and  I  took  my  saint  from  its  wrappings.  The 
King  held  it  before  him,  and  his  lips  mumbled 
a  prayer.  Some  mumbling,  too,  I  did  myself, 
thinking  it  of  advantage  to  my  soul  that,  my 
prayers  should  ascend  in  a  king's  company. 
Here,  at  least,  God  lends  a  generous  ear. 

These  images  made  me  curious,  and  it  puzzled 
me  why  the  King  carried  them  so.  I  learned 
later  that  his  fits  of  cruelty  are  often  followed  by 
a  kind  of  fear,  at  which  times  he  kneels  before 
his  saints  in  ecstasy. 


84  Luca  Sarto 

When  the  King's  muttered  words  had  ceased, 
I  looked  up,  squarely  in  his  eyes,  for  he  was  re 
garding  me  closely.  The  King's  eyes  see  every 
thing,  like  a  weazel's  in  a  hole.  His  scrutiny  was 
but  momentary,  unless  he  had  been  at  it  during 
his  prayer,  for  presently  he  smiled  almost  good 
naturedly. 

"This  is  mean  work,  Sarto,  that  you  have  done 
for  me.  It  stains  an  artist's  fingers." 

My  answer  came  quick:  "Not  when  it  is  done 
for  the  King  of  France." 

He  smiled  at  this,  and  sucked  his  teeth  for  a 
shred  of  food.  "That  is  a  courtier's  answer,"  he 
said.  "I  looked  for  something  more  honest." 

I  raised  my  eyes  inquiringly. 

"I  would  have  been  better  pleased  had  you 
told  me  that  lead  is  vile  stuff.  Your  honesty 
would  have  showed  in  that."  He  squinted 
shrewdly. 

"I  'm  told,  Sarto,  that  you  are  a  clever  artist, 
the  cleverest  in  Rome.  You  make  pretty  little 
salt-cellars  and  finger  rings  for  ladies."  He 
laughed  sarcastically.  "Do  I  look,  think  you, 
like  a  patron  of  the  arts'?" 

"By  Saint  Sepulchre,"  I  thought,  "no!"  and 
flushed  with  anger.  And  yet  I  said:  "You 


The  Spider  85 

look,  sire,  more  likely  to  favor  a  friend  of 
Cardinal  Rovere,  than  one  solely  an  artist." 

The  King  was  pleased  at  this  and  laughed. 
"Then  you  are  not  surprised  to  be  called  here  to 
night." 

"No,  your  Majesty." 

The  King  now  tapped  an  impatient  cane  until 
I  had  found  a  stool.  First  he  paid  me  compli 
ment  that  I  was  countryman  to  the  man  he  called 
his  master,  Francesco  Sforza.  "The  wisest  of  all 
rulers,"  he  said.  And  one  of  his  precepts  was 
this :  'Strike  no  retainer  until  necessity  push 
hard,  then  strike  with  steel,  so  that  he  will  not 
rise  again.'  '  Louis  smiled,  for  he  was  now  far 
beyond  such  a  primer  lesson.  In  this  contrivance 
Louis  was  himself  a  tome  of  strange  matter,  but 
with  a  print  that  was  hard  to  read. 

Of  the  present  Pope,  Paul  II,  he  spoke.  He 
was  a  triend  of  France,  free  of  alliance  with  Eng 
land  and  Burgundy.  But  he  had  been  ill.  "Has 
he  fully  recovered?"  asked  the  King.  "No?" 
"Blessed  saints!"  he  cried.  "Why  should 
friends  I  've  need  of  fall  into  a  rheum,  when  so 
many  else  might  be  snuffed  out  without  a  loss?" 

Then  he  spoke  of  my  friend,  Cardinal  Rovere, 
of  whose  ambition  he  had  heard  the  babble. 


86  Luca  Sarto 

How  would  he  regard  Guienne's  marrying  Marie 
of  Burgundy — the  Princess  who  had  been  hawked 
for  highest  bidding  before  all  the  princes  of  the 
Continent — to  which  marriage  Louis  was  op 
posed,  for  reasons  of  succession?  Burgundy  and 
Guienne  conjoined  would  have  disrupted  France. 
How  strong  was  Rovere  in  the  papal  college? 
How  greatly  would  he  value  French  influence  to 
ward  his  election?  French  gold  would  crook  the 
stiff  knees  of  opposition.  On  this  tune  he  played 
long.  It  was  roundabout  with  repetition  until 
I  fretted. 

And  then  he  thought  to  set  a  buzz  of  ambition 
in  my  brain,  that  so  he  might  enlist  my  services 
'  twixt  Tournelles  and  Vatican.  "A  cardinal's 
hat  is  not  beyond  hope,"  he  said. 

Thus  did  the  King  ply  me  with  questions,  and 
I  talked  to  the  limit  of  prudence.  But  his  flat 
tery  did  not  intoxicate  me.  Mine  is  not  a  tongue 
that  is  greased  for  indiscretion.  There  is  not  so 
much  blab  in  Sarto  as  might  fill  even  a  quarter 
pot.  A  man's  best  use  of  tongue  is  at  his  meals, 
and  then  partnered  with  his  teeth.  Let  both  of 
them  sit  idle  when  the  rump  's  gone  off.  It 's 
wench's  business  then  and  empty  gossipry. 

Concluding    with    me,    King    Louis    gave    me 


The  Spider  87 

thanks,  profusely,  as  though  I  had  told  great 
matter.  And  then  to  clap  the  whole,  he  gave  me 
a  finger  ring.  Of  this,  hereafter.  But  what 
sweetened  things  he  said,  is  my  own  concern 
ment. 

Then  I  arose  but,  as  by  an  afterthought,  he 
held  me.  "Ah,  I  had  forgot,"  he  said.  "The 
Lady  Diane  tells  me  that  you  sheltered  her  last 
night."  He  paused  and  put  therein  a  smile,  as 
it  were  a  sweetmeat  for  my  pains.  "She  and 
Madame  Corday  must  have  found  the  roads  out 
side  very  heavy.  Did  they  speak  of  the  success 
of  their  excursion1?  Let  me  see,  where  was  it  they 
went — Rouen1?  If  so,  they  would  have  entered 
Paris  by  the  Porte  Saint  Honore,  which  is  near 
your  shop.  Boulogne — did  they  mention  such  a 
city'?  Did  they  consort  there  with  our  English 
friends?" 

Now  I  did  know  that  Mademoiselle  had  entered 
Paris  by  the  Porte  Saint  Honore.  And  yet  I 
stayed  my  tongue.  On  the  instant  there  came  to 
me  the  thought  of  how  the  king's  archer  had 
pitched  forward  on  his  face.  "God's  blood,"  I 
thought.  "Michel  was  right.  He  came  to  spy 
on  Mademoiselle." 

Now,    Mademoiselle    was    naught    to   me,    or 


88  Luca  Sarto 

nearly  naught — for  I  do  confess  that  her  beauty 
had  stirred  me.  And  yet  she  had  been  my  guest. 
If  she  held  a  secret  from  the  King,  I  could  be 
false-mouthed  on  what  I  knew.  For  if  there 
is  a  fit  occasion  Sarto  can  lie  like  a  village  sign 
post. 

There  was  a  chicken  once,  also,  who  lied  to  a 
fox ;  yet  the  fox,  I  'm  told,  had  cold  fowl  for 
supper. 

"Of  a  truth,  sire,"  I  said,  "Mademoiselle  ap 
peared  to  have  entered  by  the  Porte  Saint  Honore. 
Yet  she  really  journeyed  from  the  east  of  Paris, 
for  once  she  mentioned  broken  roads  beyond  Vin- 
cennes.  She  said  it  to  Madame  Corday  and  then 
she  hushed  her  talk  with  a  sidling  glance  at  me, 
whether  I  had  caught  the  word.  But  I  know  not 
why  she  came  so  roundabout." 

"So,  so,"  answered  the  King,  and  he  pulled  his 
nose  between  his  fingers.  "Then  she  made  no 
mention  whatever  of  Boulogne'?" 

"No,  sire." 

The  King  sat  without  speech,  his  head  bent 
forward  but  waggling  slightly,  busy  with  some 
problem.  Presently  he  looked  up  and  squinteJ 
on  me  closely.  "Sarto,"  he  smirked,  "you  rui.l 
best  think  again.  It  sorts  not  with  what  I  already 


The  Spider  89 

know.  Not  that  it  matters,  Monsieur,  except  as 
a  test  of  your  honesty." 

"'As  God's  above,  sire."  I  protested,  and  rose 
upon  my  feet. 

King  Louis  eyed  me  narrowly  and  still  wagged 
his  head.  "I  seem  to  have  heard,"  he  said,  '"that 
she  came  from  Boulogne.  Have  a  care.  Master 
Artist!  It  would  be  an  ill  start  toward  your 
prosperity,  if  you  minced  the  truth.  She  brought 
an  English  message  from  the  Channel.  White 
or  red"?  Did  she  talk  of  colors'?" 

The  King  moved  forward  in  the  light  and 
ceased  rubbing  on  his  nose.  At  this  I  saw  his 
face.  To  my  surprise  it  was  sharp  with  eager 
ness.  "Boulogne,"  he  muttered  and  kept  biting 
on  his  lips. 

His  manner  gave  me  pause.  I  was  following 
a  darkened  course.  Wit  alone  would  not  keep 
me  from  the  gutter. 

The  King  was  about  to  continue  speech  when, 
with  a  quick  motion,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head, 
as  though  in  pain.  He  had  done  this  several 
times  before,  but  now  I  saw  that  his  face  was  white 
and  contorted. 

He  grasped  the  sides  of  the  chair  feebly  as 
though  to  gain  his  feet  and  settled  back.  His 


90  Luca  Sarto 

excitement  had  given  place  to  weariness.  "Go 
on,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  about  the  Lady  Diane!" 
Then  at  my  indecision,  he  turned  almost  fiercely. 
"Why  do  you  stare  at  me?  It 's  nothing.  Only 
a  little  dizziness — the  fish  at  dinner.  Mary, 
blessed  mother,"  he  moaned. 

He  seized  my  arm  and  shook  it. 

"Heart  of  me,  your  Majesty,"  I  cried  out, 
"your  illness  frightens  me,  for  my  father  was 
once  ill  as  you  are.  I  '11  call  Olivier  le  Daim." 

The  King  tightened  his  hold  of  my  arm.  He 
kicked  the  cushions  from  under  his  feet,  and  stood 
up,  hanging  his  weight  on  me. 

"I  have  overeaten,"  he  said.  "It  must  have 
been  the  fish — and  yet  your  father  was  sick  in 
this  way.  When  was  it?" 

"Last  winter,  three  days  after  Christmas." 

"But  your  father?"  the  King  whined;  "has  he 
recovered?" 

I  did  not  reply. 

"But  he  recovered?"  the  King  persisted.  He 
dug  his  nails  into  my  arm.  Presently  he  released 
his  hold.  Then  hoarsely,  "When  did  he  die?" 

"It  was  the  seventh  day  after  Christmas,"  I 
said.  My  eyes  were  on  Louis,  for  a  strange  con 
fusion  was  coming  on  him. 


The  Spider  91 

For  a  moment  there  was  naught.  Then  he 
pitched  from  me,  arms  wide  apart  and  shaking  to 
the  fingers,  his  lips  twitching  like  a  palsy.  His 
legs,  mark  you,  were  bowed,  or  else  his  knees  had 
clapped.  It  was  fearful  to  see  them  waggling  in 
their  divorcement.  At  the  room's  end  he  jerked 
down  the  hanging  that  blurred  the  light.  Likely 
enough  it  was  a  child's  fear  of  the  dark.  When 
the  light  came  clear,  it  showed  his  shrunken  figure, 
an  old  man  with  the  horror  of  death  riding  hard 
on  him.  He  were  Turk  or  Saracen  who  had  not 
pitied  him. 

Forgetful  of  me,  he  drew  his  cap  from  his  head 
and  placed  it  on  the  Spanish  chair.  He  went 
down  on  his  creaking  knees  with  his  wrinkled 
hands  clenched  before  him,  until  his  finger  tips 
were  patched  with  red  and  white.  His  lips  were 
mumbling  prayers.  But  he  mumbled  so  low  that 
if  the  saints  heard  him,  they  must  have  hushed 
the  noises  of  heaven  and  cocked  their  ears  close 
on  Paris.  But  so  wrapped  was  Louis,  that  Sarto 
had  gone  from  his  notice  as  far  off  as  the  last  of 
the  Canaries. 

It  was  thus  that  I  left  him.  In  all  the  dark 
city  of  Paris,  who  shall  say  that  there  was  another 
so  miserable?  Hardly  was  there  an  alleyway  in 


92  Luca  Sarto 

which,  at  some  time  that  night,  there  were  not 
croaks  of  laughter  and  lean  mirth;  but  within  the 
stone  room  of  the  palace,  beneath  its  towers  and 
gargoyles,  did  the  King  whimper  his  fears. 

Thus  I  learned  the  weakness  of  Louis,  his 
superstition  and  fear  of  death.  It  was  by  this 
knowledge  that  I  kept  my  bones  from  resting 
until  the  crack  of  doom  in  his  loathsome  dungeons 
of  Loches.  But  a  woman's  wit  served  also. 

And  yet  I  had  not  learned  all  the  spider's  ways. 
Father  Paul,  in  his  watchful  years,  had  observed 
many  things  he  did  not  impart  to  me.  It  were 
asking  too  much  that  in  so  short  a  schooling  a 
hungry  man,  tantalized  by  kitchen  smells,  should 
gain  acquaintance  with  all  the  wiles  of  the  spider. 
What  I  learned,  served  me.  It  saved  my  life, 
wherewith  my  genius  has  been  preserved.  Yet 
had  I  known  all  the  webs  a-weaving  as  I  left  the 
King,  in  fright  I  had  slammed  the  door  on  France. 

In  truth,  at  the  time,  I  was  not  scared  enough. 
If  a  wooden  angel  on  a  chair-back  can  grin,  Sarto 
is  not  one  to  shiver.  He  '11  show  himself  at 
least  as  valorous  as  a  female  angel.  Yet  Sarto 
and  the  angel  were  far  too  lightsome.  The  sequel 
of  these  events  held  storm.  Will  you  read  on  a 
bit? 


CHAPTER  IX 

LADIES 

WHEN  I  came  out  of  the  cabinet,  my  first 
care  was  for  the  King.  Even  when  I  was 
well  down  the  passage,  I  could  hear  him  still  mum 
bling  on  his  prayer.  If  a  man  has  such  need  of 
God,  I  thought,  he  must  be  suffering  from  a  pain 
ful  rheum.  It 's  a  zeal  for  prayer  which  marks  a 
vile  contagion. 

In  the  anteroom  I  roused  a  guardsman.  "If 
there  is  a  leech  in  the  place,"  I  cried,  "send  him  to 
the  King."  Then  I  went  out,  leaving  a  stir 
behind  me. 

In  the  outer  room  I  had  thought  to  have  found 
Michel,  my  servant.  But  it  seems  that  when  he 
did  not  find  any  one  to  chatter  Italian  with  him, 
he  had  slid  off  his  stool  and  had  gone  outside. 
I  saw  him  in  the  street  a  hundred  paces  off,  talk 
ing  with  a  man.  Aside  from  these  two  there  was 
no  one  in  sight  except  a  beggar  woman  who  whined 
with  outstretched  hand.  "Monsieur,  for  the  love 
of  God."  I  gave  her  a  coin  and  called  Michel. 

93 


94  Luc  a  Sarto 

He  came  up,  leaving  his  companion.  He  was 
profuse  with  apology  for  having  left  his  post. 
But  he  had  chanced  upon  an  Italian  fresh  from 
Rome,  he  said;  a  fellow  who  had  been  a  boatman 
on  the  banks.  As  both  of  them  knew  but  a 
pennyworth  of  French,  they  had  been  stifled  with 
dumbness  for  a  week.  And  so,  on  finding  each 
other,  their  tongues  had  wagged.  I  asked  Michel 
who  he  was. 

"I  know  not,"  Michel  replied,  "except  that  he 
is  monstrous  f  riendly,and  that  his  name  is  Maistro. 
And  when  he  learned,  Master,  that  it  was  Messer 
Luca  Sarto  whom  I  served,  he  fairly  tossed  his 
cap  for  joy.  He  was  so  homesick,  he  said,  and 
your  name  stirred  his  thoughts  toward  Italy. 
And,  Master,  when  I  told  him  where  we  lived,  he 
offered  to  take  me  out  and  show  me  the  sights  of 
Paris." 

"But  you  don't  know  whom  he  serves'?" 

"What  does  it  matter,  if  he  has  money  in  his 
poke?" 

It  was  a  shrewd  answer  of  the  varlet. 

Now  I  was  somewhat  turned  about  in  coming 
out  of  the  palace,  and  for  a  moment  I  stood  won 
dering  which  was  the  shortest  way  home.  The 


Ladies  95 

only  mark  to  guide  me  were  the  towers  of  Notre 
Dame,  and  for  an  instant  I  could  have  sworn  that 
they  had  gone  off,  arm  in  arm  from  their  former 
place.  I  set  myself  straight  at  last.  "The 
river  's  here,"  I  said.  "My  way  lies  there." 

I  had  hardly  started  when  the  beggar  woman 
to  whom  I  had  given  the  coin  plucked  my  sleeve. 
"For  love  of  God,  Monsieur,"  she  whined.  She 
raised  her  mouth  toward  my  ear.  "Luca  Sarto," 
she  whispered. 

Now  I  '11  confess  that  in  Italy  even  the  beggars 
know  me,  but  it  surprised  me  that  in  Paris  it 
should  be  so.  Consequently  I  took  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  turned  her  to  the  light.  I  had 
never  seen  her  face  before.  "How  is  it,  my 
beauty,"  I  asked,  "that  you  know  me*?" 

But  still  she  beckoned  to  me.  She  stood  within 
the  shadow,  thirty  paces  from  the  palace  door. 
Presently  she  whispered,  "I  speak  to  Luca 
Sarto?"  and  then,  "The  Lady  Diane  wishes  to 
see  you.  Follow  me  and  I  '11  lead  you  to  her." 
She  ended  with  her  former  whining  tone,  to  cloak 
her  commerce  with  me.  "For  the  love  of  God," 
she  said,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  in  the  pos 
ture  of  a  beggar. 


96  Luca  Sarto 

At  this,  without  even  so  much  as  looking  back, 
she  set  off  through  the  shadows.  I  waved  to 
Michel  to  come,  and  followed  after. 

Michel  came  up  at  a  trot.  "It  was  last  night," 
he  said,  "that  I  told  you  we  would  hear  of  Made 
moiselle  again."  Then  he  followed  at  my  heels. 

We  came  shortly  to  a  narrow  street  with  bal 
conied  houses  and  steep  roofs.  Twice  we  ducked 
under  chains,  which  are  strung  from  house  to 
house,  as  they  are  in  Italy,  against  the  chance  of 
broils.  At  a  few  only  of  the  houses  candles 
burned  in  the  front  windows,  for  the  edict  requir 
ing  lights  was  neglected,  so  high  was  the  cost  of 
candles.  Our  course  was  mostly  north  and  west, 
for  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame  now  came  behind  us. 

Then  we  came  to  a  house  better  than  most,  if 
one  might  judge  by  the  carvings  on  the  door.  It 
was  as  high  as  a  tower,  with  slanting  roof.  Most 
of  these  Paris  roofs  are  steep-pitched,  with 
sharpened  edge  a-top.  They  are  built  like  the 
Spanish  donkey,  but  larger,  as  if  for  the  torture 
of  a  giant.  It  is  a  pretty  penance  for  an  unbe 
liever  to  set  him  with  weighted  feet  to  jog  upon 
the  knife-back  donkey.  They  say  it  brings  a  sin 
ner  back  to  Christ. 

But  here  was  the  old  woman  knocking  on  the 


Ladies  97 

door.  It  was  opened  by  a  man-servant.  I  told 
Michel  to  squat  upon  the  sill  and  wait  for  my 
return.  At  the  top  of  a  second  flight  of  stairs  the 
servant  threw  open  a  door. 

It  was  a  large  room  with  a  brisk  fire  upon  the 
hearth.  Beside  it  sat  Madame  Corday  and  Made 
moiselle. 

I  am  an  Italian,  thank  God.  The  sun  has  shone 
where  I  have  lived,  and  the  blood  is  warm.  Sarto 
knows  when  a  woman  's  pretty. 

Mademoiselle  was  working  on  a  frame  on  which 
embroidery  was  stretched.  She  was  clad  in  soft 
blue  stuff  that  matched  her  eyes.  Her  gown  was 
cut  to  a  V  in  front,  but  an  undermuslin  spared 
her  modesty.  Her  hair  was  held  in  a  gold  band 
and  mesh.  Her  stockings  were  white  with  blue 
clocks  upon  them.  We  '11  see  these  stockings 
again,  in  other  circumstance.  I  beg  you  to  re 
member  these  blue  clocks. 

Mademoiselle  put  down  her  needle  as  I  came 
forward  and  held  out  her  hand  to  me.  "It  is  good 
of  Monsieur  to  come,"  she  said. 

"Mademoiselle  is  gracious  to  allow  it." 

The  Lady  Diane  smiled  at  my  eagerness,  then 
her  look  grew  grave  again.  It  appeared  that  she 
was  fretted  over  something. 


98  Luca  Sarto 

"Perhaps  Monsieur  remembers  that  when 
Madame  and  I  parted  from  him  last  night  he 
made  us  an  offer  of  help  whenever  we  stood  in 
need." 

"It  is  so,  dear  lady.  I  have  dreamed  of  it  all 
day  long." 

"But  we  did  not  know  how  soon  the  time 
would  come.  Perhaps  Monsieur's  offer  was  a 
jest." 

"It  would  be  an  ill  jest  if  you  did  not  think  me 
serious,  Mademoiselle." 

"A  need  arose  to-night."  She  hesitated. 
"Luca  Sarto,  you  may  withdraw  your  offer,  and 
we  shall  think  naught  the  worse  of  you." 

"Mademoiselle,  I  renew  my  offer.  If  there  is 
any  service,  I  hold  myself  ready  for  it." 

"Then,  Monsieur,  I  '11  be  plain  and  blunt. 
Five  nights  ago  Madame  Corday  and  I  left  Bou 
logne  with  a  message  of  some  consequence  and  of 
a  secret  nature.  You  will  forgive  me  if  I  with 
hold  a  too  precise  knowledge  of  it.  We  returned 
in  haste  and  with  what  secrecy  we  might.  Our 
visit  to  you  was  unintentional.  But  despite  our 
secrecy  it  comes  to  our  ears  to-night  that  the  one 
person  from  whom  we  were  chiefly  concerned  to 


Ladies  99 

keep  our  movements  hidden  has  come  to  a  partial 
knowledge  of  them." 

Mademoiselle  looked  searchingly  at  me,  as 
though  to  learn  whether  I  divined  the  one  she 
meant. 

"By  my  soul,  dear  lady,"  I  replied,  "I  know 
the  story.  Let  me  rinish  it.  I  know  not  the 
message  you  brought  trom  Boulogne,  but  I  can 
hazard  a  guess  how  your  coming  was  betrayed. 
It  was  the  archer  who  tumbled  in  the  door.  If  I 
smell  the  business  right,  the  King  of  France  is 
the  person  you  wished  to  keep  in  darkness." 

Mademoiselle  nodded.  "Sarto  makes  a  close 
guess." 

"And  this  very  night,  dear  lady,  I  've  been 
playing  at  words  with  this  same  king.  Have  no 
fear  of  it!  He  got  naught  from  me." 

Thereupon  I  told  her  the  events  of  the  morn 
ing,  how  the  servant  of  Louis  came  with  the  leaden 
image,  and  how  I  had  gone  upon  his  summons. 
I  concluded  with  the  strange  fit  that  had  come 
on  Louis.  During  this  narration  Mademoiselle 
watched  me  narrowly.  She  must  have  seen  how 
honestly  I  dealt  with  her.  When  I  told  of  the 
lies  I  had  given  Louis  as  to  their  direction  into 


ioo  Luca  Sarto 

Paris,  she  smiled  doubtfully.  "And  did  Louis 
believe  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  fear  not,"  I  answered. 

"He  knew  our  course,  Monsieur,  but,  thank 
God,  he  does  not  guess  our  message."  She  sat  for 
a  moment  in  deep  thought. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  at  length,  "this  mes 
sage  that  we  bore  to  Paris  we  must  send  on  to 
others.  But  here  's  the  trouble.  We  would  be 
detected  in  leaving  Paris.  And  our  servants,  too, 
are  known.  Meantime  there  is  a  man  in  the  vil 
lage  of  Melun,  but  a  day's  journey  out  of  Paris, 
waiting  for  our  word." 

"And  Sarto,  then,  is  to  be  the  messenger*?" 

"If  he  will." 

"God  knows,  dear  lady,  I  'd  rather  draw  my 
sword.  But  I  'm  but  a  beggar  for  your  friend 
ship,  and  I  '11  take  what 's  offered." 

"Of  danger  there  is  probably  nothing,"  Made 
moiselle  replied.  "Yet  the  times  are  bad. 
You  had  best  take  your  servant,  and  go 
armed." 

She  now  took  from  her  garment  a  letter  and 
handed  it  to  me.  I  read  the  superscription. 
"Jacques  Bonnet,"  it  went.  I  looked  up  quickly. 
"Perhaps  Sarto  is  mistaken  as  to  the  nature  of  his 


Ladies  101 

errand.  It  would  fit  Sarto's  humor  sourly  to  play 
postboy  to  some  gallant." 

But  Mademoiselle  laughed.  "You  may  be  con 
tent.  There  is  more  of  broil  in  the  message  than 
love." 

I  read  on:  "  'The  Inn  of  the  Good  Laborer, 
Melun.'  How  shall  I  know  this  man1?" 

"In  this  fashion,"  she  said.  "You  will  reach 
the  inn  by  dusk.  With  your  dinner  order  a  wine 
called  vin  de  la  rose  blanche.  They  will  not  have 
it  in  the  cellar,  for  a  wine  of  such  a  name  does  not 
exist.  Yet  you  will  protest  that  any  other  wine 
will  not  serve  your  thirst,  and  you  will  bid  them 
look  again.  It  will  be  your  loud  demand  and  the 
outcry  of  it  about  the  house,  that  will  proclaim 
you  to  Monsieur  Bonnet." 

"In  faith,"  I  interposed,  "I  '11  bawl  out  loud 
enough." 

"Finally,"  Mademoiselle  continued,  "Monsieur 
Bonnet  will  ask  you  to  share  a  yellow  wine  he  has. 
But  do  not  give  him  the  letter  until  you  are  alone 
together.  Let  me  impress  another  point.  It 's 
likely  enough  that  no  danger  will  threaten  you. 
However,  Louis  may  now  distrust  you.  To  make 
it  safe  that  the  letter  does  not  reach  his  hands,  at 
the  first  sign  of  danger  read  it  and  destroy  it  ut- 


IO2  Luca  Sarto 

terly.  If  then  you  meet  Jacques  Bonnet,  tell  him 
this  at  least:  that  it  is  a  white  rose  that  blossoms 
in  the  English  garden." 

"Mademoiselle,  I  've  written  it  on  my  mem 
ory." 

"And  when  will  you  start?" 

"I  '11  be  out  of  Paris  to-morrow  morning  before 
the  city  stirs." 

"We  are  deeply  in  your  debt,  Monsieur." 

"And  shall  I  see  you  when  you  return?"  I 
asked  shrewdly.  "It  will  be  fitting  to  report  my 
success." 

"Later,  Monsieur.  But  on  the  day  after  to 
morrow  all  of  King  Louis's  Court  journeys  to 
Loches,  and  we  attend.  You  have  spoken  of  his 
strange  sickness.  Louis  goes  on  pilgrimage  to 
pray  for  remedy  to  the  Madonna  of  Saint  Ours 
which  stands  in  the  church  at  Loches.  Once  in 
many  years,  they  say,  the  statue  comes  to  life, 
and  then  her  touch  is  healing.  It 's  healing  he 
wants,  as  his  trouble  grows  upon  him.  Not  a  nod 
of  life  has  he  had  yet,  but  he  is  to  try  his  prayers 
again." 

She  paused.  "What  is  the  color  of  the  rose, 
Monsieur?" 

"It 's  white,  dear  lady,"  I  replied. 


Ladies  103 

"And  you  start  to-morrow." 

"In  the  dawn,  Mademoiselle." 

Diane  searched  me  with  her  eyes.  "Monsieur," 
she  said  at  last,  "I  have  need  of  friends." 

I  bent  and  kissed  her  fingers.  To  my  content 
ment  she  wore  no  betrothal  ring. 

"When  you  have  returned,"  I  said,  "I  '11  come 
to  claim  your  friendship." 

Diane  smiled.  "I  give  it  to  you  now,"  she 
said. 

"Blessed  lady,"  I  cried  out,  "I  want  no  Ma 
donna  for  my  prayers.  It 's  you  alone  can  heal 
me." 

But  Diane  checked  me.  "Peace,"  she  said; 
"it 's  sacrilege." 

I  turned  toward  her  at  the  door.  She  had 
taken  a  white  rose  from  the  table  and  she  tossed 
it  to  me.  "It 's  a  token  for  your  luck,"  she  said. 

Then  she  wished  me  Godspeed,  and  I  left  her, 
my  wit  offering  me  no  pretext  to  prolong  my  stay. 
Had  I  found  my  tongue,  methinks  she  would 
have  honored  my  pretext,  for  in  her  eyes  there  was 
a  kindly  look  that  tagged  me  to  the  door. 

You  have  learned  from  this  that  Sarto  gives  a 
quick  decision.  There  are  men  who  put  delay 
upon  their  words.  They  may  or  they  may  not. 


104  Luca  Sarto 

"Await  the  hour!"  they  say.  "It's  as  the  day 
advises."  If  it  is  but  a  trivial  meeting,  these 
men  leave  a  starting-hole.  They  may  be  engaged, 
they  say.  They  must  first  look  upon  their  tablets. 
Sarto  says  his  yes  or  no  at  once,  flat,  even  for  a 
journey  beyond  the  Pillars. 

I  had  come  to  Diane  a  goldsmith.  I  departed 
less  the  artist  and  more  the  soldier,  with  a  tingle 
of  adventure  in  my  blood  and  bravado  in  my 
brain.  And  in  my  heart?  'Fore  God,  I  'm  not 
one  of  your  sick-green  youth  who  worships  the  first 
woman  who  smiles.  Women  had  crossed  my 
path  before,  and  had  held  out  to  me  their  white 
fingers,  and  made  eyes  through  their  fans,  and 
still  I  was  single.  It  is  enough  that  the  Lady 
Diane  interested  me.  Let  the  gossips  go  no 
further!  Methinks,  however — and  I  do  profess 
it  to  God — that  Diane  had  most  marvelous  blue 
eyes,  and  that  her  hand  lay  in  mine  at  parting  as 
if  it  were  in  no  hurry  to  be  gone.  Heigho  for 
love,  tra-la,  la-la-la.  It 's  a  sweet  tune  when  the 
wind  is  from  the  south  in  May,  but  Sarto  is  not 
ready  yet  to  give  himself  to  any  woman. 

I  puzzled,  I  confess,  why  Mademoiselle  had 
pitched  on  me  to  do  her  errand.  "There  's  some- 


Ladies  105 

thing  in  you,  Sarto,"  I  thought,  "something  that 
fetches  the  ladies  to  you."  I  stroked  my  beard 
and  hummed  the  tune  L' Amour  de  Moi. 

And  yet  from  my  work  I  was  being  plucked. 
Melun  was  to  be  but  the  start  of  my  travels.  I 
was  venturing  like  a  Portuguese  sailor  into  south 
ern  seas,  when  it  was  only  the  northern  stars  I 
knew.  What  an  Afric  coast,  had  I  known  it,  I 
had  set  my  journey  on ! 

So  I  jigged  the  letter  in  my  palm  and  went  my 
way.  Michel  slept  on  the  doorstep,  but  I  pried 
him  loose  with  my  boot  and  put  him  on  his  feet. 
He  must  have  been  dreaming  of  the  archer,  for  he 
was  mumbling  how  the  fellow  had  fallen  on  his 
face.  "It  was  a  snare,  Master.  He  came  to 
spy."  And  then  he  awoke  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 

A  wet  scum  was  on  the  city.  Down  by  the 
Seine  there  must  have  been  a  carouse,  for  a 
drunken  sound  came  up.  At  the  crossing  of  the 
Rue  Saint  Roch,  a  comely  trollop  offered  me  her 
company,  but  I  waved  her  off.  At  last  I  came 
home  and  threw  my  clothing  right  and  left. 

"Michel,"  I  said,  "you  '11  call  me  at  the  dawn." 

Michel  cocked  his  head  in  surprise. 

"We  have  an  errand  at  Melun." 


106  Luca  Sarto 

"For  Mademoiselle?"  he  asked,  and  grinned. 

I  swore  upon  him  for  his  insolence.  Then  I 
fell  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  we  were  up  when  it  was 
hardly  light.  Before  Paris  was  astir  we  started 
on  horseback  on  the  road  to  Melun. 


CHAPTER  X 

CABBAGE    IN    THE    DISH 

IF  it  were  my  desire  to  mystify,  I  would  hold 
secret  a  circumstance  that  I  myself  did  not 
know  until  long  afterwards.  It  seems  best,  how 
ever,  to  make  but  a  bald  narration,  and  not  to  fol 
low  the  devices  of  the  story  writers,  who  withhold 
the  truth  to  tease  the  expectation. 

The  servant  woman,  Jeanne — she  who  had 
played  the  beggar  and  had  been  my  guide — had 
gone  noisily  down  the  passage  and  had  slammed 
the  door  at  its  further  end.  It  was  but  a  pretense, 
for  presently  she  tiptoed  back  and  stood  at  Made 
moiselle's  door  again.  It  was  thus  she  heard  our 
converse. .  Her  sharp  nose  scratched  the  key 
hole. 

Sarto  has  no  relish  for  a  hag's  company  and  if 
he  wrote  for  his  own  pleasure  he  would  bid  Jeanne 
go  packing  and  be  rid  of  her.  She  is  cabbage  in 
the  dish  which  must  be  eaten  first,  but  there  are 
sweets  in  the  pantry.  You  must  learn  first  from 

her  how  Oliver  knew  of  Sarto's  departure. 

107 


io8  Luca  Sarto 

Jeanne  narrowly  avoided  Michel  who  dozed 
upon  the  step.  She  made  sure  that  he  was  asleep 
— his  snoring  was  warrant — then  she  climbed 
across  his  legs  and  went  off  in  the  darkness. 

A  man,  meanwhile,  sat  alone  near  by  and  threw 
dice  on  a  bare  table.  His  name  was  Gaston,  if 
it  matter.  To  him  she  went. 

"Sixes  and  sixes  again!"  he  cried.  "All  the 
saints  in  the  devil's  hatband  love  me."  He  rat 
tled  the  dice  before  his  ears.  "Dance,  you  little 
dears,  dance !  Sixes  again.  It 's  a  shame  there  's 
no  money  on  the  throw.  Come  in,  Jeanne!" 

She  had  hurried  and  first  she  had  to  catch  her 
breath.  "Mademoiselle  sent  me  for  Luca  Sarto. 
So  I  took  him  to  her  room,"  she  said. 

The  man  sprawled  out  his  legs  and  gave  her 
close  attention. 

"I  couldn  't  hear  much,  for  I  'm  a  deaf  old 
woman."  She  looked  at  him  shrewdly  and  shook 
her  poke. 

"Here!"  He  threw  her  a  coin,  which  she 
clutched — for  the  tentacles  of  the  French  palm 
are  like  a  crab's.  "Now  you  can  hear  better,"  he 
said. 

"He  is  going  to  Melun  with  a  letter  to  some 
one,"  Jeanne  replied. 


Cabbage  in  the  Dish  109 

"What  name1?"  This  with  a  more  than  for 
ward  squint  of  interest. 

She  paused  again  as  though  considering  what 
her  information  might  be  worth.  Surely  when  a 
man  goes  into  such  a  stew,  the  price  of  the 
knowledge  must  be  high.  "I  am  betraying  my 
mistress,  whom  I  love,"  she  whined.  "Is  it  not 
worth  gold*?" 

He  flung  her  another  coin. 

And  so  he  got  it  from  her  beggar  lips. 
"Jacques  Bonnet,"  and  for  address,  "Le  Bon  La- 
boureur,  Melun."  And  that  was  all  he  got  for 
his  payment,  for  she  was  careful  that  the  com 
modity  of  her  sale  did  not  overslop  its  measure. 

But  it  seemed  to  be  enough.  He  left  the  room, 
slamming  the  door  behind  him. 

It  was  to  Oliver  de  Bourges  that  Gaston  went. 
Oliver  was  gaily  dressed  in  colors,  as  for  a  feast 
of  peacock.  He  had  pared  his  nails  and  was  mix 
ing  a  pomade  with  his  thumb. 

Gaston  cried  out  abruptly.  "There 's  news, 
Oliver !"  And  he  repeated  what  he  knew. 

But  it  brought  no  gladness  to  Oliver.  "Hell 
fire,"  he  snarled — that  handsome  Oliver,  who 
loved  me  so  much  that  he  wished  me  quit  of  the 
troubles  of  this  world.  "What  does  the  fool 


1 10  Luca  Sarto 

Jacques  do  in  Melun?"  Whereat  he  spoke  oaths 
that  would  have  scorched  a  sailor's  tongue. 
"Jacques  recks  not  of  danger.  If  he  lurks  so 
close  to  Paris,,  the  King  will  spy  him  out.  He  '11 
be  taken,  and  then," — he  looked  darkly  at  Gaston 
— "God,  I  can  feel  already  Tristan's  fingers  on  my 
throat." 

Here  Gaston  broke  in.  "Peace,  Oliver,"  he 
said.  "You  wear  yourself." 

But  Oliver's  prattle  broke  loose  again:  "I'll 
dream  of  cord  and  ax  to-night.  And  you,  man, 
sit  as  cool  as  a  waiting-woman.  We  stand  on  a 
tickle-edge.  In  sixty-five  all  of  us  went  against 
the  King.  Then,  after  the  confusion  that  fol 
lowed  the  battle  of  MontPhery,  all  of  us  licked 
the  King's  boot.  But  Burgundy  put  less  spittle 
in  the  business,  and  with  him  was  Jacques.  Of 
a  consequence,  while  you  and  I  have  again  come 
to  Louis's  favor — in  which  we  hope  to  remain 
until  it  pleases  us  otherwise — Jacques  consorts 
openly  with  Burgundy,  and  snaps  his  fingers  at  the 
King.  And  now  Jacques  comes  to  Melun,  so 
close  to  Paris.  And  does  this  with  so  little  secrecy 
that  a  serving- woman  can  find  it  out.  Suppose 
that  Jacques  is  captured.  He  is  put  upon  the 
rack.  What  then,  think  you?  Will  he  spare 


Cabbage  in  the  Dish  in 

us?  His  love  for  me  is  not  that  kind.  'Put 
Oliver  alongside,'  he  '11  say.  'Give  me  that 
comfort!'  " 

Once  more  Gaston  broke  in:  "Peace,  Oliver," 
he  said.  "You  foam  like  a  pint  pot.  You  are 
more  troth  than  brew." 

Oliver  brayed  again:  "Perhaps  you  have  for 
gotten  the  Common  Weal.  It 's  sure  that 
Jacques,  to  spite  us  for  deserting  him,  will  stir 
the  King's  memory  of  it.  Louis  would  be  nothing 
loath  to  catch  me  up.  My  credit  stands  on  slip 
pery  soil.  Why  else  would  the  King  thrust  me 
from  the  Palais  Saint  Louis'?  Then  there  is  our 
pact  with  England.  It  gets  deeper  as  I  think 
upon  it." 

"Monsieur,  hold  yourself!      Breathe  awhile!" 

But  Oliver  kept  on:  "Edward  of  England, 
the  on-and-ofF  King,  who  itches  to  feel  again  the 
crown  upon  his  head,  and  borrows  money  from 
Burgundy  for  this  purpose,  he  is  no  friend  of 
Louis.  What  think  you  if  our  commerce  with 
him  came  out?  The  rot  goes  down  deep  within 
the  apple.  This  commerce  will  be  known  if  they 
get  this  Jacques  and  put  him  on  the  rack." 

He  paused  for  breath,  then  belched  forth 
again:  "And  now  Jacques  must  come  so  close  to 


112  Luca  Sarto 

Paris,  and  you  and  I  must  live  in  sweat  until  he 
comes  safely  off." 

Gaston  waited  until  Oliver  had  spent  himself, 
scratching  some  stains  upon  his  doublet  with  his 
thumbnail.  From  plate  to  mouth,  it  seemed, 
his  freighted  knife  had  often  gone  shipwreck  on 
his  front.  Then  at  last  he  spoke:  "Oliver,"  he 
said,  "there  's  too  much  gas  in  you.  You  fizz  at 
the  cork.  Hold  a  bit!  There  is  good  comes  out 
of  this.  Here  I  have  brought  you  word  that 
Sarto  and  his  servant  are  going  from  Paris,  to  be 
gone  all  night.  For  a  week  you  have  been  fret 
ting  lest  Sarto  find  your  papers  in  the  flooring. 
The  time  fits  now  to  bring  them  off.  It 's  easy 
to  break  into  an  empty  building." 

"So,  so?"  Oliver  replied.  "And  are  there  no 
other  servants  in  the  house*?" 

"Not  one.  Though  it 's  likely  that  when 
Sarto  returns  to  Paris,  he  will  take  a  journeyman 
or  two." 

"You  speak  shrewdly,  Gaston.  To-morrow 
night 's  the  very  time.  I  '11  make  the  trial." 

Gaston  came  away. 

We've  eaten  the  cabbage.  Quick!  Let's 
change  the  dishes! 


Cabbage  in  the  Dish  113 

While  these  things  were  chancing,  Sarto  pol 
ished  his  estoc  and  tried  its  temper,  unmindful 
that  his  name  was  caught  in  a  soldier's  profanity 
as  he  sat  by  his  cups,  was  in  the  prayers  of  a  blue- 
eyed  girl,  and  in  the  schemes  of  a  great  king,  on 
whose  lips  was  a  cruel  smile.  These  schemes 
must  live  in  darkness.  In  fitting  time  I  '11  put 
a  candle  to  them. 

And  so  the  goldsmith  slept,  and  the  kettle 
of  France  simmered  and  brewed  a  peppery  broth. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN    THE    CAT  's    AWAY 

WHEN  Giovanni's  body  was  found  upon  the 
bank,  there  was  excitement  in  Rome.  Al 
though  Jacopo  was  ready  to  swear  against  me,  the 
Orsini  could  not  bring  a  charge  on  me  in  open  law, 
because  of  the  killing  of  Andrea.  By  their  influ 
ence,  therefore,  they  hushed  the  matter  and  relied 
for  their  revenge  on  the  chance  of  secret  methods. 
But  it  was  a  week  before  they  sent  a  rogue  named 
Maistro  into  France  to  fall  on  me  unaware. 

Behind  me,  therefore,  came  Maistro,  and  his 
was  a  sweaty  journey,  also;  for  day  and  night  he 
crowded  on.  Is  it  not  enough  that  French  rogues 
disturb  Sarto's  sleep,  without  an  Italian  rogue  as 
well"?  So  this  man  came  in  darkness,  grim  upon 
his  business. 

Set  down  my  pages  now  and  then,  and  turn 
your  ear  eastward!  You'll  hear  hoofs  clacking 
in  the  night.  Soon  or  late  Sarto  \vill  entertain 
another  visitor. 

So  into  Paris  this  Italian  varlet  came.      Blood 
114 


When  the  Cat's  Away  115 

still  was  on  his  mood,  and,  "Hell's  fire,"  he 
snarled,  "where  do  I  find  this  Sarto*?"  He  went 
poking  into  all  the  pot-houses,  if  any  word  might 
drop  that  would  set  him  right. 

He  merits  a  word  of  description,  scarcely  more. 
Maistro  was  his  name,  a  lithe  fellow,  more  of 
cat  than  dog,  a  swart  face  with  a  slash  across  one 
cheek,  a  sullen  eye  except  when  there  is  a  drink 
or  a  wench  in  sight — a  fellow  daubed  together 
out  of  very  common  clay,  yet  with  a  mind  to  trick 
himself  a  gentleman.  Being  now  far  from  Italy 
and  acquaintance  to  take  him  down,  he  wears  a 
sword  and  dagger,  and  a  feather  in  his  hat. 

He  haunted  the  pot-houses  and,  though  he 
learned  naught  of  me,  he  got  a  pretty  taste  for 
French  drink.  And  then  by  merest  chance, 
Maistro  fell  in  with  Michel,  as  I  've  told  you— 
for  this  was  the  same  Maistro  with  whom  Michel 
talked  on  the  night  of  my  audience  with  King 
Louis.  It  was  no  wonder  he  tossed  his  cap  with 
gladness. 

Now  of  Oliver,  again ;  and  how  he  and  Maistro 
came  together ! 

Behind  my  workshop,  the  Palais  Saint  Louis, 
there  is  an  ancient  tennis  court,  given  now  to 
kitchen  uses.  This  is  entered  from  a  lane  that 


1 16  Luca  Sarto 

leads  under  an  archway  from  the  street.  There 
is  a  wooden  gate  across  this  lane,  but  a  panel  has 
been  kicked  out,  with  room  for  squeezing  through 
if  one  is  not  too  paunched. 

The  following  night — I  being  now  gone  on 
my  way  to  Melun — when  it  had  gone  twenty  of 
the  clock,  Oliver  de  Bourges  came  down  the 
street.  He  had  a  servant  but  he  left  him  at  the 
corner.  The  Palais  Saint  Louis  was  dark. 
Jeanne  was  right,  and  Sarto  had  gone  off.  He 
tried  the  front  door.  It  was  tight  as  a  tomb. 
Then  he  went  to  the  gate  at  the  lane.  Oliver  has 
been  stuffing  himself  with  sweets  these  thirty 
years,  and  his  doublet  buttons  scratched  in  getting 
through  the  panel. 

He  crossed  the  court  and  found  a  swinging 
shutter.  He  clambered  through. 

He  spat  upon  my  ovens.  Then  he  sought  his 
bedroom,  and  secured  his  papers.  By  the  faint 
light  at  the  window  he  looked  hard  on  the  packet 
to  make  sure  that  none  were  gone.  "I  dreamed 
the  King  got  hold  of  them,"  he  mumbled. 

He  now  returned  to  the  room  where  my  ovens 
were.  He  itched  to  leave  the  house,  yet  it  would 
be  worth  a  minute  to  foul  my  work.  He  lighted 
a  taper,  and  set  it  in  the  socket  by  my  bench. 


When  the  Cat's  Away  i\J 

There  was  a  litter  on  it  of  sketches,  chisels,  ham 
mers,  and  bits  of  metal.  He  hacked  my  chisels. 
Then  he  put  his  thumb  through  my  sketches. 
The  taper  blinked  and  flared  with  the  stir  of  his 
dirty  work. 

At  the  last  he  spied  a  gilded  model  which  I 
had  set  to  copy  for  my  larger  work.  He  stole  it, 
but  not  for  gain.  Rather,  it  was  to  thwart  me. 

Oliver  chuckled  at  his  mischief.  Then  he 
opened  the  street  door  and  stepped  out.  There 
was  a  man  coming  down  the  street.  Oliver 
leaned  back  in  the  shadow  to  let  him  pass.  When 
opposite,  however,  this  man  stopped.  Oliver  held 
himself  against  the  sill  while  one  might  say  a 
Pater  Noster,  then  becoming  curious,  he  thrust 
out  his  head. 

"Good  sir,"  he  said,  "perchance  you  '11  tell  me 
what  halts  you?" 

"I  seek  the  house  of  Messer  Luca  Sarto.  Will 
you  direct  me  to  it?"  It  was  vile  French  he 
spoke,  and  Oliver  knew  him  to  be  an  Italian. 

It  was  Maistro,  the  rogue  of  the  Orsini. 

"Well,  sir,  and  what  then?"  Oliver  asked. 

"I  bring  him  a  message,"  continued  Maistro. 
"By  'r  Lady,  I  ask  in  all  civility.  If  you  know 
the  house,  set  me  right !" 


1 1 8  Luca  Sarto 

Oliver  thought  a  bit.  He  was  in  a  hurry  to  be 
gone,  lest  finding  his  papers  be  snarled  in  other 
things.  He  might  send  the  fellow  off  on  wrong 
direction,  or — he  paused — it  would  take  little 
time  to  play  upon  him  and  hear  his  message.  It 
might  concern  Sarto's  trip  to  Melun.  If  so,  it 
would  be  worth  the  hearing.  If  a  covered  dish 
is  set  before  you,  it 's  well  at  least  to  lift  the  cover 
to  see  what  meats  are  on  it. 

Maistro  spoke  impatiently:  "My  direction 
said  it  was  the  first  house  beyond  the  turn.  If 
so,  it  must  be  here." 

"You  come  right,"  said  Oliver.  "I  'm  Sarto 
myself." 

"Sarto,  Sarto?  Perhaps  I  mistook  your  words. 
Did  you  tell  me  that  you  are  Sarto?" 

"None  other." 

Maistro  hesitated.  "Methinks  you  speak  not 
like  an  Italian.  I  must  be  sure  it  's  Sarto  before 
I  speak  my  message." 

Oliver  answered  him  peevishly.  "Have  n't 
you  seen  me  come  from  my  house?  You  may  be 
content  that  I  'm  the  man  you  seek." 

Maistro  put  a  sly  question.  "Name  me  your 
servant,  Monsieur!" 

Oliver    replied    sarcastically,     "Michel  's    his 


When  the  Cat's  Away  119 

name.  Perhaps  your  message  is  to  him.  I  '11  go 
seek  him  about  the  house." 

Maistro  seemed  to  fumble  at  his  purse,  which 
hung  beside  his  dagger.  Then  on  a  sudden  he 
cried  out.  "By  God's  blood,  no !  My  message  is 
for  Sarto." 

He  drew  his  dagger.     Oliver  saw  its  flash. 

"Hold  a  bit,"  he  cried.  "You  're  mistaken. 
I  'm  not  Sarto."  And  he  skipped  back  upon  the 
step  and  groped  for  his  sword. 

But  Maistro  was  not  stopped  by  the  outcry. 
He  leaped  up  the  steps.  Oliver  stood  in  a  corner 
of  the  entrance,  snarling  with  fear.  "Stay  your 
self!  I'm  not  Sarto!" 

But  Maistro  cried,  "I  have  your  word  for  that, 
Monsieur."  Like  a  cat  he  sprang  upon  him.  In 
close  work  a  sword  is  useless.  He  drove  his 
dagger  in  Oliver's  ribs,  then  stretched  out  the 
body  on  the  steps.  "The  Orsini  send  their  love 
to  Sarto,"  he  said. 

He  listened  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  dis 
turbed  in  the  house  across  the  way.  No  head 
showed  at  any  window.  There  was  silence,  ex 
cept  for  the  dripping  of  blood  from  the  step. 

He  dragged  the  body  to  the  deeper  shadow, 
keeping  off  lest  he  smirch  himself.  There  was  a 


I2O  Luca  Sarto 

purse  with  small  gold  in  it,  a  kerchief,  Sarto's 
gilded  model,  and  the  papers  for  which  Oliver  had 
come.  He  took  them  all — grinning  on  the  model 
for  he  thought  it  to  be  gold — wiped  his  dagger  on 
Oliver's  doublet  and  ran  off  in  the  darkness. 

It  was  a  full  ten  minutes  later  that  a  head  came 
out  of  a  window  across  the  way.  "Murder! 
Yoho!  Here 's  dirty  work!"  The  outcry  roused 
the  street. 

Presently  there  was  a  crowd  about  Sarto's  door. 
It  pushed  in  so  close  that  the  foremost  were 
dabbled  with  Oliver's  blood. 

The  man  who  had  done  the  bawling  was  in  the 
center,  telling  what  he  knew.  "The  fellow  who 
is  dead  is  Luca  Sarto.  I  heard  him  proclaim 
himself." 

But  another  neighbor  brought  a  lantern.  He 
stood  over  the  body,  and  then  scratched  his  head. 
"On  the  soul  of  Peter,  you  've  misreckoned  it. 
The  fellow  is  not  Sarto  at  all." 

"It 's  likely,  then,"  said  a  third  neighbor,  "that 
the  one  who  said  his  name  was  Sarto  was  the  vil 
lain  who  did  the  murder." 

"It 's  likely  enough,"  the  first  speaker  answered, 
all  blurred  in  his  thoughts. 

And  so  the  report  went  out  that  Sarto  was  a 


121 


rogue  and  murderer.  When  Sarto  was  not  to  be 
found  on  the  morrow,  it  seemed  to  make  it  sure. 
Before  night  a  king's  writ  made  statement  of  the 
matter,  and  set  up  a  reward  for  his  arrest.  Yet 
Sarto  knew  not  of  it,  as  he  was  at  Melun. 

As  for  Maistro,  this  only:  He  sweated  until 
he  was  quit  of  Paris  and  on  the  road  toward 
Italy.  Melun  is  on  this  road.  We  shall  meet 
him  again. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I    POLISH     MY    SWORD    AND    GO    A-JOURNEYING 

THE  morning  that  followed  my  meeting  with 
King  Louis  and  Mademoiselle  Diane,  I  set 
out  with  Michel,  as  I  've  said,  for  Melun.  Our 
start  was  early.  I  prodded  Michel  and  kicked 
him,  for  he  sleeps  like  a  clod.  I  had  set  Made 
moiselle's  white  rose  in  a  cup,  but  it  was  wilted. 
I  kissed  its  petals  but  dropped  it  in  the  sink. 

We  were  off  before  the  cobbled  pavement  had 
sounded  the  first  hurry  of  the  day.  We  took  to 
the  country  toward  the  southeast,  through  the 
Porte  Saint  Antoine. 

Michel  on  excursions  is  overmuch  given  to 
chattering.  His  tongue  trots  with  his  horse's 
legs.  I  silenced  him  by  my  frowns,  and  I  put 
him  to  the  rear,  some  sixty  paces,  that  my  thoughts 
might  not  be  broken  by  his  bad  Italian. 

Company  on  the  road  is  at  best  of  doubtful 
value.  I  am  a  poet  when  the  wind  is  south  and 
then  I  wish  silence  for  my  thoughts.  Sometimes 


122 


I  Polish  My  Sword  123 

I  devise  a  measure  and  I  weave  the  hills  and 
valleys  into  verse.  Or  I  set  a  tune  to  a  lady's 
eyes  and  rhyme  their  color  to  the  blueness  of  the 
sky.  I  fling,  perhaps,  a  sonnet  to  the  moon,  or 
play  pitch  and  toss  with  stars  and  planets. 

On  a  journey  I  speak  my  fancies  as  they  come. 
I  am  not  one  of  your  dull  rhymesters  who  scribbles 
in  a  garret  on  thin  gruel  from  a  stewpan,  and 
comes  out  bleared  at  night.  And  yet  I  traveled 
once  with  such  a  silly  fellow.  And  I  humored 
him — this  blotter  of  ink,  this  spoiler  of  parchment. 
He  foamed  in  my  ear,  but  I  held  my  lips  shut  lest 
I  vent  a  sarcasm,  and  in  mercy  I  wagged  agree 
ment  to  his  nonsense  and  let  him  puff  himself  like 
a  crier. 

No  company  is  best.  You  have  learned  my 
most  exquisite  modesty.  Yet  when  I  go  alone 
upon  a  journey  there  comes  on  me  a  most  pleasing 
conceit.  If  any  one  is  near  I  cannot  blow  the 
bubble  big.  I  am  therefore  robbed,  for  it  is  the 
greatest  joy  on  earth  when  meditation  blows  these 
fancies  on  its  pipe.  Alone,  I  am  another  Giotto, 
no  greater,  for  even  then  some  shreds  of  modesty 
hang  about  me.  But  can  I  tell  my  genius  and  am 
bition  to  a  companion1?  His  answer,  wandering 
in  the  fields,  might  be  of  manure  and  pigs.  Or  he 


124  Luca  Sarto 

might  keep  tally  on  my  extravagance,  and  betray 
me  later  in  company.  I  hold  that  man  a  traitor 
who  tells  to  the  people  of  the  plains  the  things  that 
are  wrung  in  confidence  on  the  soul's  high  slopes. 

And  so  by  preference  I  travel  alone,  granted,  of 
course,  that  there  is  no  danger  of  brigandage  or 
encounter. 

One's  early  mood  will  not  hold  all  day.  On 
the  morning  ride  only  will  be  the  exaltation,  the 
full  pots  of  color  ready  for  the  brush.  Such 
frisking  of  the  mind  ceases  by  noon.  This  is  to 
be  expected.  One  may  not  eat  his  nuts  with  the 
violence  with  which  he  attacked  his  entree.  Nor 
does  a  tub  fill  with  as  great  a  splatter  when  the 
water  has  risen  nearly  to  the  brim.  As  the  day 
falls  into  a  placid  evening,  so  the  spirits;  until  at 
last  you  descend  from  your  upland — the  moun 
tains  of  your  lofty  thought — to  some  shadowed, 
low-set  village,  hard  by  running  water.  It  is  in 
twilight  mood  you  complete  your  journey. 

You  throw  back  your  head  and  bawl,  and  an 
hostler  comes  to  take  your  horse.  Then  you  slap 
the  dust  off  your  legs  and  sniff  with  your  nostrils 
for  the  kitchen.  Alongside  it,  on  the  cobbles,  tubs 
are  set.  You  roll  up  your  sleeves  and  plunge 
your  arms  in,  and  splash  your  face  and  neck, 


I  Polish  My  Sword  125 

while  wenches  look  and  giggle  from  the  kitchen 
doorway. 

So  much  is  talk.  This  is  what  I  did.  We 
came  to  Melun  well  toward  the  end  of  the  after 
noon.  As  appeared  from  the  stir  as  we  entered 
the  town,  it  was  a  day  of  fair.  For  a  half-hour 
previously  along  the  road,  there  had  streamed  off 
past  us  the  country  people  that  had  had  their  en 
tertainment.  They  were  older  folk  mostly  and 
very  young  children,  who  slept  on  the  jouncing 
horses.  On  coming  to  the  inn  I  found  that  the 
crowd  centered  on  the  square  before  it.  A  group 
of  men  and  wenches  were  dancing  a  baladine  upon 
the  grass.  And  there  were  booths  set  up  for  the 
sale  of  gauds  and  relics,  together  with  sure  nos 
trums  against  the  return  of  the  plague. 

I  washed  and  beautified  myself,  and  then,  as  it 
still  lagged  an  hour  of  supper,  I  dragged  out  a 
stool,  for  I  wished  to  see  the  manner  of  enjoy 
ment  of  these  French  villagers.  They  were 
country  folk — men  from  the  fields.  Of  the 
women  there  were  more  wives  than  daughters — 
red-faced,  bouncing  creatures  that  grudged  not 
their  ankles  to  the  crowd. 

Now  I  had  come  pounding  all  day  upon  my 
horse,  and  I  was  so  comfortable  on  my  stool  that 


126  Luca  Sarto 

it  would  take  a  handsome  jade  to  get  me  to  my 
feet.  Jeanne  la  Pucelle  herself,  although  she 
beguiled  a  king,  must  have  given  me  more  than  a 
witch's  wink  to  set  me  frisking  to  the  pipes.  But 
presently  I  observed  a  comely  country  wench. 
She  had  a  fine,  slim  figure,  bare,  white  shoulders 
and  a  roving  eye.  Her  foot  was  tapping  to  the 
music.  "Sarto,"  I  thought,  "there  's  no  need  to 
sulk.  Give  a  pleasure  when  you  can !" 

In  a  moment  I  caught  her  eye.  "My  dear,"  I 
said,  "the  tune  has  started."  I  seized  her  about 
the  middle  and  romped  with  her  across  the  grass. 
We  whirled  around  three  times,  brushing  off  sev 
eral  fat,  slow  dancers,  who  were  jouncing  up  and 
down  like  butter  to  market.  The  wench's  hair 
was  blown  across  her  shoulders,  and  she  laughed 
outright  with  pleasure.  Invitation  for  more 
glinted  in  her  eyes,  or  I  'm  a  Jew,  but  I  left  her 
when  the  tune  was  done.  Nor  did  I  consent  to 
dance  again. 

Presently  a  church  bell  marked  the  sunset.  It 
was  the  Angelus  to  close  the  day.  Laudo  Deum 
verum — ,  said  the  bell,  plebem  voco — congrego 
clerum — defunctos  ploro — pestum  fugo — festa  de- 
coro.  It  is  thus  the  church  circles  and  protects 
us. 


/  Polish  My  Sword  127 

Where  a  church  bell  rings  I  have  observed  the 
air  is  sweet.  Dew  glistens  on  flower  and  stalk. 
Soft  showers  follow  on  a  drought.  Fruits  ripen 
unblemished  in  the  sun.  No  hawk  disturbs  the 
barnyard.  Dogs  are  not  fretted  by  a  windy 
moon.  Nor  does  witch  or  lightning  plague  the 
night.  Where  a  bell  sounds  across  the  fields  win 
ter's  cold  tooth  is  blunted  and  August  veils  its 
fiery  sun. 

Supper  was  now  announced  to  me,  and  I  took  a 
table  in  a  corner  of  the  room  from  which  I  might 
see  all  who  entered.  The  other  tables  filled  im 
mediately,  for  hunger  is  a  sharp  herdsman. 
"Boy,"  I  said,  addressing  a  gawk  who  came  to 
take  my  order,  "it  appears  that  trade  is  brisk.  Is 
it  the  fair  that  brings  you  all  this  patronage*?" 

"In  part,  Monsieur.  And  yet  we  lie  on  the 
direct  road  to  Italy,  and  there  is  monstrous  thick 
travel  back  and  forth.  In  a  single  day  I  've 
known  three  or  four  to  pass.  Melun,  Sens,  Ton- 
nerre,  and  I  know  not  what  other  towns  lie  on  the 
road  beyond.  Would  Monsieur  relish  a  roasted 
ham?  It  is  from  our  own  sty." 

Monsieur  thought  yes. 

"And  an  artichoke  in  sauce*?" 

Monsieur  still  thought  yes. 


128  Luca  Sarto 

"And  what  will  Monsieur  drink?" 

I  looked  about  the  room,  then  waited  for  a  lull 
in  the  rattling  of  the  spoons.  A  fat  dame,  too, 
whose  shoes  had  been  clappering  on  the  floor  with 
dishes  from  the  kitchen,  was  now,  for  a  moment, 
at  a  stand. 

"Boy,"  I  said,  and  I  pitched  my  voice  so  that 
all  could  hear,  "I  '11  have  none  of  your  Rhenish 
wine.  My  gullet  sings  out  for  a  juice  called 
vin  de  la  rose  blanche.  You  '11  fetch  me  a  bottle !" 

The  boy  scratched  his  head.  "God  spare  me," 
he  said,  "but  I  know  not  the  name." 

"What!" — and  I  bawled  so  that  the  man  at  the 
farther  corner  heard  me — "no  vin  de  la  rose 
blanche!  It 's  nonsense.  Send  the  landlord  in  !" 

Presently  the  fat  landlord  appeared,  rubbing 
his  fingers  on  his  greasy  apron.  He  was  in  none 
too  good  a  temper  for  being  brought  away  from 
his  stove.  Yet  he  held  his  temper  down. 

"Landlord,"  I  said,  and  I  lifted  my  voice  high 
as  in  a  passion,  "in  Paris  they  say  you  serve  a  wine 
called  vin  de  la  rose  blanche.  But  your  boy  de 
nies  your  fame.  Let 's  have  no  more  words. 
My  throat  is  parched." 

The  landlord  stupidly  shook  his  head  and  was 
about  to  deny  the  wine,  when  a  man  at  a  near-by 


I  Polish  My  Sword  129 

table  put  down  his  knife,  pushed  back  his  chair, 
and  crossed  the  room  to  me.  "Will  Monsieur 
share  my  wine?"  he  asked.  "Although  it 's 
yellow,  it  is  a  near  cousin  to  that  you  ask  for." 
Then  he  squinted  on  me,  and  added  in  a  lower 
tone,  "I  know  la  rose  blanche.  It  's  a  wine  that 
all  England  is  thirsty  for." 

As  this  sorted  with  what  I  had  been  told  would 
happen,  I  bade  the  landlord  give  convoy  to  my 
dishes.  He  brought  my  meat  and  artichoke,  his 
broad  thumb  inside  the  sauce.  Having  come 
now  to  the  stranger's  table,  and  put  myself  op 
posite,  I  pledged  him  for  his  civility.  Then  I  put 
my  attention  on  my  roasted  ham.  It  was  proper 
that  it  should  be  he  who  spoke  first  of  my  er 
rand.  However,  as  he  held  silence — except  for 
his  loud  munching — at  last  I  became  impatient. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  and  sunk  my  voice,  "to 
whom,  think  you,  do  I  bear  a  letter?" 

But  he  lifted  up  his  hand.  "There  's  a  time  to 
come,"  he  said. 

My  supper  was  finished  with  a  tartlet  of  such 
rare  excellence  that  I  asked  the  boy  of  what  fruits 
it  was  concocted,  and  the  measure  of  them.  And 
I  bade  him  commend  me  to  the  cook.  Then,  as 
the  stranger  made  no  inquiry  for  my  message,  I 


130  Luca  Sarto 

thanked  him  for  his  wine,  told  him  that  he  might 
find  me  on  the  street  before  the  door,  and  strolled 
out. 

The  dancing  was  over,  and  the  men  and  girls — 
their  feet  still  frisking — were  singing  the  piper's 
songs.  Being  myself  full  of  supper,  and  of  con 
sequence  merry  of  heart  and  in  a  kindly  mood,  I 
joined  the  group,  and  hummed  the  tunes  with 
them.  As  the  proverb  says,  it 's  a  full  belly  that 
cries  to  the  head,  "Sing,  you  rascal."  Though  I 
am  not  compact  of  harmonies,  yet  if  the  lilt  is  car 
ried  strong  by  others,  I  '11  not  go  more  than  a 
half  tone  off.  The  words  of  the  song  I  knew  not, 
for  my  memory  waits  until  a  bottle  has  gone  round 
three  times. 

My  friend,  the  comely  wench,  edged  up  to  me  in 
the  shadow.  She  was  tired,  poor  wretch,  and  I 
put  my  arm  around  her  waist  to  steady  her.  Nor 
did  I  refuse  to  kiss  her  between  the  verses. 

"Maitre  Jean  Balue 
A  perdu  la  vue 
De  ses  fiveches  ;  — 

It  was  a  rollicking  tune  and  twenty  of  us  sang  to 
gether. 

"Who  is  this  Jean  Balue  •?"  I  asked. 


I  Polish  My  Sword  131 

The  wench  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "Have  n't 
you  heard  of  him*?  He  is  the  wicked  cardinal 
who  betrayed  the  King.  He  's  buried  alive  in 
Loches." 

"Loches?"  I  said.  "That's  where  the  King 
journeys." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  But  she  would  not  sing 
again. 

There  was,  I  noticed,  a  comet  hanging  in  the 
east. 

The  venders  on  the  square,  having  now  held 
their  wares  on  sale  all  day  to  the  abatement  of 
many  a  wallet,  were  loading  their  carts  with  the 
pieces  that  remained.  At  an  interval,  as  they  laid 
away  some  choice  saint,  they  barked  its  merits  to 
the  villagers,  if  perchance  there  still  lurked  an  un 
spent  penny. 

When  I  returned  to  the  inn  I  was  met  at  the 
door  by  the  stranger  who  had  shared  his  wine 
with  me.  The  room  was  now  empty,  but  he  drew 
me  to  a  corner  screened  from  the  windows. 

"You  bring  a  letter,"  he  asked,  "for  Jacques 
Bonnet?" 

"From  whom,  Monsieur*?"  I  asked,  to  test  him 
beyond  mischance. 

"Mademoiselle  Diane  Motier,"  he  said. 


132  Luca  Sarto 

I  drew  the  letter  from  my  doublet  and  handed 
it  to  him.  He  declined  it. 

"I  am  not  Jacques  Bonnet,"  he  said.  "He  has 
gone.  But  he  left  a  message  for  you." 

It  was  his  turn  to  offer  a  letter.  It  was  ad 
dressed  to  Antoine  or  his  successor. 

"For  me?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  for  whomever  comes  to  him  from  Made 
moiselle." 

I  broke  the  seal  and  read  the  contents.  They 
were  brief.  "  'Loches  is  the  town,'  '  I  read. 
"  The  Gray  Moon  is  the  inn.'  " 

"Here  is  confusion,"  I  said,  and  I  showed  him 
the  letter. 

"It 's  plain  enough,"  he  replied.  "Loches  lies 
four  days  to  the  southwest.  He  tells  you  the  inn 
where  you  may  find  him." 

"So,  so?  And  am  I  to  go  gallivanting  across 
the  country?" 

The  stranger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  'm 
but  a  servant  in  the  business,"  he  said.  "Jacques 
Bonnet  is  my  master.  It  was  only  yesterday  he 
went  to  the  south.  But  he  left  this  letter  and  he 
bade  me  urge  its  importance." 

He  paused  and  eyed  me  up  and  down.  "It 
concerns  the  Lady  Diane,"  he  said.  "It  would  be 


I  Polish  My  Sword  133 

a   sad  snarl   for  her  unless  you  go  to  Loches." 

I  put  Diane's  letter  back  in  my  doublet.  "If 
you  will  have  horses  ready  in  the  morning,  I  '11 
make  the  trip,"  was  how  I  ended. 

No  sooner  had  I  given  this  consent  than  he 
offered  me  the  half  of  a  silver  clasp.  It  was 
hardly  larger  than  my  thumb  nail. 

"Monsieur  Bonnet  wears  its  fellow,"  he  said. 
"Wear  your  half  upon  your  doublet  for  a  sign. 
And  until  you  see  its  fellow,  keep  your  finger  on 
your  lips.  Perhaps  Monsieur  Bonnet  will  not  be 
himself  at  the  inn.  If  so,  his  servant  will  pro 
claim  himself." 

I  nodded  my  understanding  of  the  matter,  and 
he  went  off  to  make  arrangements. 

And  what,  think  you,  was  my  reason  for  con 
senting  to  this  journey?  Have  you  no  invention? 
Must  I  blurt  it  on  you?  It  was  to  Loches  that 
Mademoiselle  was  bound. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MAISTRO    TAKES    PASSAGE    WITH     ME 

I  WAS  abroad  early  next  day  and  I  had  my 
head  in  the  stable  yard  before  breakfast. 
Two  strong  Norman  horses  were  already  saddled 
for  Michel  and  me.  "Monsieur  Bonnet's  serv 
ant  is  punctual,"  I  thought.  Then  I  sat  on  a 
horse-block  where  I  could  look  down  the  road, 
until  the  boy  should  tell  me  that  my  food  was 
ready.  A  hostler  lounged  by,  and  I  called  to  him. 

"How  far  do  you  make  it  to  Pithiviers1?"  It 
was  to  be  our  first  night's  stop. 

"Mor  'n  thirty  miles." 

"And  a  good  inn  when  you  get  there?" 

"It 's  not  like  this,  but  not  so  bad,  neither." 

"And  the  road?" 

"Fair  to  good." 

I  gave  him  a  copper  for  his  pains.  It  was 
such  a  rare  gift  that  his  mouth  fell  open.  Had 
I  desired  to  fee  him  further — this  vent  being  of 
fered — I  could  have  put  the  coin  upon  his  tongue, 
like  salts  for  an  inward  ailment. 

134 


Malstro   Takes  Passage  with  Me      135 

"Eh,"  I  said,  "here  comes  a  traveler — from 
Paris.  There  's  his  dust  at  the  turn.  He  rides 
early."  Then  as  he  came  nearer,  "By  the  look  of 
him,  he  has  been  riding  all  night." 

He  pulled  rein  before  the  horse-block.  "Break 
fast  and  a  change  of  horses!"  he  blurted.  Then, 
when  the  boy  only  gaped,  "By  Christ's  blood,  bid 
them  serve  me  quick!" 

Now,  although  his  words  were  mostly  French, 
yet  by  his  manner  of  speaking  I  knew  him  to  be 
an  Italian.  And  so  I  trailed  him  in.  It  would 
ease  me  to  speak  to  some  one  in  my  native  tongue, 
having  whined  through  my  nose  a  full  two  weeks 
in  French.  I  bade  the  boy  put  my  dishes  on 
the  Italian's  table.  It  is  not  often  that  Sarto  so 
favors  a  fellow  traveler. 

"Melun  lies  on  the  Italian  road,"  I  said.  "Per 
haps  you  journey  home'?" 

He  nodded. 

"Methinks,  then,  that  you  are  of  a  sour  home 
sickness  when  you  travel  by  night." 

"My  business  is  proper  to  myself  alone,"  was 
his  sullen  answer. 

I  picked  my  meat  in  silence.  "This  is  an  un 
social  villain,"  I  thought. 

Presently     I     spied     Michel     in     the     yard. 


136  Luca  Sarto 

"Michel !"  I  cried,  and  I  pounded  on  the  shutter. 
"Michel !"  At  the  second  calling  the  Italian  at 
my  table  laid  down  his  knife  and  crooked  his 
head  out  of  the  window.  Michel  came  into  view, 
and  stood  with  his  shoulders  even  to  the  sill. 
"You  have  heard  my  change  of  plans'?"  I  asked. 
"We  do  not  go  back  to  Paris,  but  to  the  south." 

Michel  nodded. 

"We'll  start  before  the  hour,"  I  added. 

I  turned  to  the  Italian. 

"Man,"  I  said,  "what  ails  you4?" 

The  fellow  had  risen  when  Michel's  head  had 
appeared  at  the  window.  "God's  face,"  he 
groaned.  He  was  white  to  his  eyes,  and  he  shook 
so  that  his  knees  clapped. 

"One  would  think,"  I  said,  "that  you  had  seen 
a  ghost." 

His  voice  quavered  almost  beyond  control,  but 
he  contrived  to  speak.  "Who  are  you,  Monsieur'? 
What  is  your  name1?" 

"If  it  may  concern  you,  my  name  is  Luca 
Sarto." 

When  I  gave  it,  he  tottered  but  steadied  him 
self  against  the  table — to  the  slopping  of  the 
cow's  milk  that  had  been  put  before  me.  He 


Maistro   Takes  Passage  'with  Me      137 

might  have  slopped  the  whole  of  it,  for  it  sets 
heavy  on  my  stomach. 

"Hold  a  bit!"  I  said.     "I  '11  not  hurt  you." 

But  on  a  sudden,  as  though  a  monstrous  fear 
had  taken  him,  he  blurted  from  the  room. 

I  tapped  my  head  as  though  the  seat  of  his  com 
plaint  lay  there.  "Michel,"  I  said,  "has  he 
slipped  his  keeper*?" 

But  Michel  was  deep  in  thought.  "Michel,"  I 
added,  "you  have  never  seen  the  fellow,  have 
you?" 

"Not  that  I  remember,  Master,  and  yet  there 
is  something  in  his  voice." 

"It  was  your  appearance  at  the  window  that 
first  frighted  him." 

"Ay,  Master,  but  he  tottered  when  he  got  your 
name.  One  would  have  said  that  he  had  seen 
a  ghost."  Michel  scratched  his  head.  By  this 
plowing  his  memory  sprouted.  "Master,"  he 
said,  "I  remember  now  that  I  have  seen  this  man 
before.  It  was  he  I  talked  with  when  you  went 
in  to  King  Louis.  He  was  to  show  me  the  sights 
of  Paris.  His  name  is  Maistro." 

"Michel,"  I  said,  "see  where  the  fellow  went." 
Whereupon  I  proceeded  with  my  food. 


138  Luca  Sarto 

In  a  few  minutes  Michel  returned. 

"He  's  in  the  stables.  And  he  walks  up  and 
down  and  bites  his  fingers." 

I  pointed  to  the  untouched  dishes.  "He  has 
not  eaten  a  bite.  He  is  crazed  by  lack  of  sleep. 
Here,  swob  me  off !  I'm  stained.  Now  bring 
the  horses  around  and  we  '11  start!" 

I  wiped  my  teeth  upon  my  napkin,  as  is  my  cus 
tom,  and  left  the  table. 

The  horses  were  ready,  and  the  landlord  stood 
by  my  stirrup.  My  reckoning  was  moderate,  and 
out  of  a  piece  of  silver  there  was  enough  left  to 
fee  the  yard.  The  wind  of  it  went  about,  until 
there  were  four  to  hold  my  bridle. 

I  flung  the  smaller  coins  upon  the  ground  and 
was  laughing  at  the  uproar,  when  the  Italian,  who 
but  a  few  minutes  since  had  bolted  from  me  in 
such  a  fright,  came  trotting  from  the  stable.  He 
rode  a  fresh  horse.  He  came  forward  with  a 
shamefaced  grin. 

"Will  Messer  Sarto  forgive  the  illness  of  my 
manners*?" 

"There  's  no  need  of  pardon,"  I  said,  still  sulky, 
but  wondering  at  the  change  that  had  come  over 
him.  "Yet  if  you  want  my  pardon,  I  '11  not  with 
hold  it." 


Maistro   Takes  Passage  with  Me      139 

"It  was  a  dizziness  I  'm  subject  to.  Yet  it 
was  engendered  by  finding  myself  in  the  presence 
of  the  famous  Luca  Sarto." 

"Tush,  man.  You  slopped  my  doublet,  yet  't 
is  no  matter." 

The  Italian  turned  up  his  eye  in  ecstasy.  "Oh, 
Monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  've  seen  your  Madonna." 

"So?"  I  asked,  but  thawed. 

"Blessed  Mary!  What  grace!  What  beau 
ty!" 

"Maistro,"  I  said,  and  smiled  on  him,  "you 
have  a  most  discerning  eye.  Shall  we  make  on, 
Michel?" 

But  still  the  stranger  lingered.  He  cleared  his 
throat.  "Perhaps  I  may  ask  a  favor  of  a  coun 
tryman?" 

I  bowed  for  his  encouragement.  "Come, 
come,"  I  said,  "ask  your  favor!"  I  had  warmed 
to  him,  for  praise  was  welcome  in  this  barren 
land. 

"I,  too,  journey  to  the  south,"  he  said.  "As  the 
roads  are  dangerous,  perhaps  you  will  permit  me 
to  travel  in  your  company." 

"I  journey  to  Loches.  If  your  road  lies  in  that 
direction,  you  are  welcome  to  our  company." 

"Loches!"  he  exclaimed.     "It 's  the  very  town. 


140  Luca  Sarto 

Messer  Sarto  honors  me.  I  '11  brag  of  this  when 
I  return  to  Italy." 

"Ride  behind  with  Michel,  Maistro.  We  '11 
make  a  start." 

I  lifted  my  hand  in  farewell  to  my  friend,  the 
comely  wench,  whose  head  popped  from  an  upper 
window,  and  we  rode  out  of  the  yard. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AN    INN    AT    THE    CROSSROADS 

THERE  was  much  turning  to  leave  the  town. 
The  road  followed  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cloister  wall  for  a  hundred  paces — the  length  of 
a  penitent's  conversion — but  took  up  its  winding, 
loose  practices  beyond.  It  was  a  vile  road,  too, 
with  mud  and  quickset.  It  makes  sad  business 
for  a  traveler  when  even  the  road  knows  not  the 
way,  or,  knowing  it,  is  set  on  mischief.  A  village 
madcap  with  his  thumb  against  his  nose  is  of  bet 
ter  instruction.  At  last  we  came  to  the  fields, 
having  been  all  four  ways  within  a  quarter  mile. 

Our  direction  was  southwest.  And  yet  if  the 
lies  be  believed  of  a  certain  romancing  Genoese 
mapmaker,  not  southwest  at  all.  For  what  does 
the  fellow  say  but  that  the  world  's  a  globe — that 
it  is  shaped  like  a  huge  round  tart  and  is  plat- 
tered  in  space.  But  also  this  tart  is  always  spin 
ning,  and  what  lies  eastward  on  the  platter  whirli 
gigs  to  west.  It  is  blasphemous  coggery.  Sarto 
answers  the  fellow:  Does  wind  blow  always 

141 


142  Luca  Sarto 

from  the  east?  Does  not  its  shifting  blow  con 
fusion  to  his  theory?  Then  at  this,  too,  let  him 
scratch  his  head !  I  jump  into  the  air,  straight  up. 
And  yet  in  that  moment  does  the  world  leap 
eastward  from  me?  I  drop  back  into  the  self 
same  tracks.  Look  how  a  little  reason  shows  him 
up  a  fool !  This  Christopher  Stand-on-His-Head 
ruffles  me.  Southwest  we  journeyed — southwest, 
I  repeat — from  Melun. 

We  had  food  shortly  before  noon  at  an  inn  set 
close  upon  the  road.  I  gave  my  horse  to  a  boy 
and  went  inside.  There  was  a  pleasing  smell  com 
ing  up  the  hall. 

"There  are  three  of  us,"  I  called;  "set  the  tables 
quick!" 

A  little  girl  ran  off  with  the  message.  She 
was  a  pretty  tot,  with  a  smear  of  jam  upon  her 
face,  for  her  mouth  had  been  too  small  for  the 
traffic. 

I  sit  longer  at  meat  than  most,  and  when  I  had 
finished,  Michel  and  Maistro  had  already  left  their 
table.  Michel  had  gone  to  the  horses.  Maistro 
was  engaged  upon  a  map  with  a  serving  lad,  a  tall 
thin  gawk  like  a  shadow  at  sunset.  It  is  likely 
that  Maistro  did  not  see  me. 

He  was  asking  questions  about  the  road.     "It 


An  Inn  at  the  Crossroads  143 

lies,  you  say,  some  fifteen  miles  beyond  Pithi- 
viers?" 

The  boy  wagged  his  head. 

"And  it 's  a  mite  of  an  inn  at  a  four  corners,  and 
no  town  about1?" 

Again  the  boy  nodded. 

"Maistro,"  I  said,  "do  you  seek  a  place  to  lie 
to-night?' 

Maistro  started  at  my  voice.  His  look,  I 
thought,  was  thievish. 

But  if  there  was  something  shamefaced  in  his 
action — some  cheat  upon  the  landlord,  whereof  I 
know  not — his  recovery  was  quick.  He  sprawled 
the  map  upon  the  table  and  weighted  the  ends 
with  saucers — there  had  been  fish  in  them  and  a 
buttery  mess  was  left.  I  set  them  beyond  my 
nose. 

Maistro  put  one  thumb  on  Melun  and  the  other 
on  Loches.  "Our  journey  lies  between,"  he  said. 
"To  make  it  in  four  days,  we  may  lie  to-night  at 
Pithiviers.  But  if  we  would  be  only  three  days 
upon  the  road,  there  is  an  inn  fifteen  miles  be 
yond.  Here!"  His  thumb  jumped  the  distance 
and  squatted  on  the  spot.  "Here !  It 's  a  third 
of  the  whole.  Does  it  meet  your  pleasure  to  make 
the  extra  miles'?  " 


146  Luca  Sarto 

I  climbed  into  bed  and  commended  myself  to 
sleep.  But  the  wagoners  were  talking  and  sing 
ing  in  the  yard  below.  "Blessed  Jesus,"  I  said, 
"don't  these  fellows  know  it's  night?  Must  I 
be  pestered  with  them?" 

Finally  to  mend  the  noise  I  threw  up  my  win 
dow.  A  tall  fellow  was  singing.  "Louse!"  I 
bawled.  "Go  off  to  bed!"  At  first  he  didn't 
hear,  but  I  caught  him  with  a  boot  and  scattered 
the  concert. 

I  closed  the  window  and  fell  to  sleep  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MAISTRO    AGAIN 

SLEEP  carries  no  dial  in  its  wallet.  I  know 
not  how  long  I  lay  unconscious.  I  was  awak 
ened  at  a  crash.  It  brought  me  to  my  feet. 
"God's  wounds!"  I  cried,  and  I  fumbled  beneath 
my  pillow  for  my  dagger. 

There  were  sounds  of  footsteps  down  the  stairs. 
I  leaped  to  the  steps,  but  at  the  bottom  fell  head 
long  on  the  chair,  where  it  was  lodged  against  the 
door.  Still  dazed  with  my  sudden  awakening,  I 
disengaged  myself.  The  sounds  of  steps  had 
ceased. 

I  went  quietly  down  the  stairs,  wearing  a  shift, 
naught  else.  The  falling  chair  had  aroused  no 
body. 

I  put  my  ears  against  all  the  doors.  From 
within  each  there  came  the  deep  and  disjointed 
melodies  of  noses.  "There  are  three  pipers  to  the 
room,  at  least,"  I  thought.  "Only  a  treble  's  lack 
ing  for  a  choir."  Coming  to  the  end  of  the  hall, 

147 


148  Luca  Sarto 

I  saw  that  a  passage  ran  off  to  the  back  of  the 
building  and  that  a  taper  burned  in  a  socket. 

"Maistro  and  Michel  are  sleeping  there,"  I 
mumbled.  "I  '11  tell  them  what 's  happened." 

The  passage  fell  off  two  steps,  and  but  for  the 
light  I  would  have  pitched  upon  my  head.  I 
shuffled  on,  masking  the  candle  with  my  fingers. 

I  thrust  my  head  in  Maistro's  room.  "So,  so, 
what 's  this?  The  fellow  is  not  a-bed."  I 
looked  about.  "Nor  has  his  bed  been  slept  in." 
I  scratched  my  head  to  stir  my  thoughts.  It  was 
Maistro's  room,  for  I  had  seen  him  placed.  "Me- 
thinks  I  have  wronged  a  wagoner.  There  is  an 
other  villain  in  the  house.  Maistro  has  spied  me 
fingering  my  gold." 

I  went  into  Michel's  room.  He  was  fast 
asleep.  I  returned  to  Maistro's  room  and  sat  on 
a  stool  to  comb  out  the  clutter  of  my  thoughts. 
There  was  a  splotch  of  mud  upon  the  floor,  which 
Maistro  had  scraped  from  his  boot,  but  no  other 
sign  of  him.  He  had  gone  complete.  "The 
rogue  had  a  gallows  face,"  I  mused.  "He  was 
a  sullen  devil.  I  liked  him  not  from  the  first. 
But  he  has  had  his  day's  sweat  for  nothing." 

However,  as  I  would  sleep  the  better  for  sure 
knowledge  that  Maistro  had  run  off,  I  went  down 


Maistro  Again  149 

the  stairs  to  the  ground  level.  I  opened  the  inn- 
yard  door.  As  I  paused,  I  heard  a  horse's  whinny. 
Dimly  I  could  see  a  man  and  horse. 

"Maistro!"  I  cried.     "Stand,  you  whelp!" 

At  the  sound  he  leaped  to  his  saddle.  Then  he 
galloped  from  the  yard.  I  pelted  after,  but  he 
had  gone  into  the  darkness.  I  could  see  that  it 
was  the  road  toward  Loches  he  took,  but  nothing 
else.  The  clack  of  his  horse's  hoofs  fell  off. 

I  was  about  to  go  to  bed — being  blue  with  cold 
—when  I  saw  that  he  had  dropped  his  wallet  on 
the  stones.  I  carried  it  inside  and,  relighting  my 
taper  from  the  embers  on  the  hearth — from  the 
coldness  of  which  I  judged  that  it  was  well  toward 
morning — I  opened  up  the  wallet. 

First  there  was  a  stinking  shift,  and  I  tossed 
it  in  the  fire.  And  sour  stockings.  God!  Next 
there  was  a  bundle  of  letters.  A  name  of  di 
rection  caught  my  eye.  "So,  so,"  I  said;  "what 
have  I  come  on?"  For  the  topmost  letter  had 
the  name  "Oliver  de  Bourges."  "This  fellow 
is  a  sorry  thief,  to  steal  such  worthless  stuff. 
For  one  that  is  old  in  practice,  it 's  silly  business." 
Yet  it  was  strange,  I  thought,  that  of  the  thou 
sands  in  Paris  it  chanced  to  be  Oliver  whom  he 
had  robbed. 


150  Luca  Sarto 

Judge  my  amazement,  now,  when  I  came  on  my 
own  model — the  gilded  model  from  which  I  had 
been  working  on  the  morning  when  the  messenger 
had  come  to  me  from  the  King. 

Sarto  has  a  cunning  headpiece — when  it 's  day 
light.  He  can  reason,  then,  and  make  a  proper 
sequence.  But  in  the  night,  after  he  has  been 
asleep,  he  gets  sore  muddled.  I  sat  upon  the  floor 
and  gazed  upon  the  model,  yet  not  a  thought 
would  come  to  explain  its  being  in  the  wallet. 

Nor  will  you  rightly  blame  me  for  my  confu 
sion.  You  yourself  would  not  be  so  glib  at  the 
unravelment  if  I  had  not  told  you  about  Maistro. 
There  is  no  cause  to  puff  yourself.  I  've  made  my 
memoirs  easy,  so  that  common  folk  may  under 
stand. 

I  sought  Michel.  There  was  water  in  his  cup, 
and  to  wake  him  quick  I  threw  it  in  his  face. 
He  sat  up,  spluttering. 

"Michel,"  I  cried,  "where  have  you  seen  Mais 
tro  before4?" 

He  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"I  told  you,  Master.  He  was  the  man  who  of 
fered  to  show  me  the  sights  of  Paris." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  interrupted,  "but  before  that." 

Michel  bit  his  thumb  in  thought. 


Maistro  Again  151 

"Michel,"  I  said,  "do  you  remember  a  rogue  by 
the  name  of  Maistro,  an  idle  varlet  that  hung 
about  the  banks  *?" 

"Ay." 

"This  is  the  same  rascal." 

"It 's  likely  to  be  so,  Master.  But  what  does 
the  varlet  here  in  France*?" 

"That 's  the  riddle,"  I  answered.  "But  he  at 
tacked  me  for  my  purse." 

I  pushed  Michel  back  to  bed  and  left  him. 
Then  I  returned  to  my  own  room.  I  balanced  the 
chair  upon  the  steps,  for  I  was  somewhat  wrought 
upon  by  the  night's  events.  Then  I  fell  asleep. 


I 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WE    TRAVEL    SOFTLY 

WAS  awakened  by  the  singing  of  the  stable 
boys.  Also  a  fly  had  a  part  in  it,  for  with 
all  the  fair  world  to  sit  upon,  he  chose  my  nose. 
The  chair  was  still  balanced  on  the  steps.  I 
counted  my  possessions.  My  money  and  the  let 
ter  that  I  bore  to  Jacques  Bonnet  were  safe. 

At  breakfast,  to  please  the  varlet,  I  had  Michel 
sit  with  me,  and  I  told  him  what  had  befallen  in 
the  night.  We  were  at  meat  when  word  came 
from  the  stable  that  the  door  had  been  broken  and 
that  Maistro's  horse  was  gone.  It  capped  my 
story.  "It 's  a  lesson,"  I  said.  "We  '11  take  no 
more  vagrants  in  our  company.  It  's  lucky  our 
skins  are  whole." 

We  were  on  the  road  before  the  dew  had  lost  its 
whiteness.  The  sun  was  warm  and  the  sky  was 
clear.  A  pleasant  wind  blew  across  the  earth  and 
taught  the  valley  the  music  of  the  hills.  A  shal 
low  stream  gossiped  of  its  gay  youth  upon  the 
mountains.  A  dog  barked  far  off,  and  across  the 

152 


We   Travel  Softly  153 

fields  came  the  song  of  women  at  their  planting. 
And  the  God  Pan  sat  in  a  thicket  and  cocked  his 
ear  to  all  these  tunes.  His  reed  lay  idle  for  the 
shaggy  fellow  stored  the  music  in  his  memory. 

Orleans  lay  twenty  miles  ahead.  It  would 
fall  right  for  noonday  food.  As  for  the  night,  I 
had  been  told  that  the  town  of  Saint  Dye  lay  half 
way  to  Blois. 

In  the  morning  a  band  of  players  and  jugglers 
went  by  us.  They  were  evil  looking  fellows. 
Since  the  snows  were  off  the  ground  they  had  been 
sleeping  in  the  fields,  except  on  a  few  nights  when 
barns  and  out-buildings  were  near  at  hand.  As 
for  inns,  it  would  damn  their  reputation  to  let 
them  in.  There  were  twenty  of  the  villains, 
mostly  walking,  although  two  or  three  rode  mules. 
One  fellow  in  the  company  with  a  feather  in  his 
cap  could  have  spoken  Herod  with  the  best. 
There  were  two  or  three  boys  to  speak  the  wom 
en's  parts. 

Behind  came  a  wagon  with  a  Hell's  Fire  but 
half  concealed  beneath  a  cloth.  Its  red  mouth 
gaped  in  a  manner  to  set  me  thinking  of  my  sins. 
A  great  tongue  waggled  as  if  the  beast  were  hun 
gry.  "There  is  meat  to  gorge  it,"  I  thought, 
"among  these  actor  folk."  And  I  flecked  my 


154  Luca  Sarto 

horse  with  the  whip  to  keep  him  at  his  gait,  for 
the  beast  had  theology  and  shied  at  the  sight  of 
hell. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  we  came  in  sight  of 
Orleans.  It  was  the  biggest  city  we  were  to  see — 
indeed,  there  is  nothing  grander  in  France  unless 
it  be  Paris — and  my  curiosity  was  stirred  as  we 
came  near.  It  was  outside  of  Orleans  that  the 
maid  Jeanne  had  led  the  Dauphin's  army.  Later 
she  set  him  on  his  throne  and  brushed  off  his  en 
emies.  It  makes  Sarto  blush  that  a  woman  should 
do  what  a  man  could  not.  Unless  the  whole  be 
a  piece  of  coggery,  there  was  witchcraft  at  the  bot 
tom  of  it.  Yet  she  must  have  been  a  comely  lass, 
and  it 's  a  pity  how  she  ended. 

Orleans  is  a  walled  city,  but  at  this  noon  hour 
there  was  no  one  at  the  gate  to  challenge  us.  As 
we  jogged  up,  a  man  was  pegging  a  placard  on 
the  wall.  There  were  large  words  at  the  top. 

"  'Reward!'  Stay  a  bit!"  I  said.  "Let 's  see 
what 's  offered !  "  And  I  drew  in  my  horse  to 
read. 

"Michel !"  I  cried,  amazed,  "I  've  had  no  drink 
to-day.  Read  the  words  yourself  and  see  if  you 
make  the  same.  The  town  's  bewitched." 

Michel  pressed  close.     I  pointed  my  finger  at 


We  Travel  Softly 


the  sign.  "Look,  Michel  !  Oliver  de  Bourges  is 
dead,  and  this  board  says  that  it  is  I  who  killed 
him." 

Michel  opened  his  eyes  with  astonishment. 
"Peace  of  God,"  he  blurted,  then  sat  numb  with 
his  jaw  fallen. 

I  read  aloud  the  placard  to  the  end.  This  is 
how  it  ended:  "  'Therefore,  for  the  apprehension 
of  this  monstrous  villain,  by  name  Luca  Sarto,  the 
gracious  King,  having  at  heart  the  safety  of  his 
beloved  people,  is  pleased  to  offer  a  reward  of 
twenty  crowns'  —  etc.,  etc." 

"Eh,  Michel,"  I  said,  when  I  had  finished  read 
ing,  "what  think  you  of  it*?" 

Michel  sat  biting  his  thumb,  too  amazed  to 
speak.  Then  after  a  pause:  "Master,"  he  said, 
"if  there  's  roguery  abroad  to  lie  about  us  so,  me- 
thinks  we  stand  specially  in  danger  before  this 
placard." 

There  was  truth  in  what  he  said.  Already  two 
or  three  passersby  were  gawping  at  us  from  a  dis 
tance.  "We  '11  come  away  and  think  what  's  to 
be  done,"  I  said. 

A  hundred  paces  inside  the  wall  a  signboard 
hung  above  a  door  with  a  tankard  scrawled  on  it. 
We  hitched  our  horses  and  went  in. 


156  Luca  Sarto 

A  boy  came  from  the  kitchen.  "You  '11  fetch 
whatever  may  happen  to  be  on  the  stove,"  I  said, 
"except  pork."  He  clattered  off. 

"Master,"  said  Michel,  "when  was  this  murder 
done?" 

"Two  nights  ago,"  I  said.  "Pull  your  chair 
up  close,  Michel,  and  I  '11  tell  you  more  than 
you  've  dreamed  of." 

Michel  hitched  himself  nearer  and  sat  with  his 
mouth  wide  open. 

"It  was  Maistro  who  killed  Oliver,"  I  said. 
"When  Maistro  ran  off  last  night  he  left  his  wal 
let.  In  it  were  papers  he  had  stolen  from  Oliver. 
That 's  how  I  know  he  killed  him.  But  this  mat 
ters  not.  The  King  is  mistaken,  and  the  reward 
is  set  for  me." 

"Master,"  said  Michel,  "methinks  the  placard 
gave  the  color  of  your  doublet." 

"So  it  did." 

"I  saw  doublets  hanging  in  a  window  across  the 
way.  If  one  could  be  bought  to  fit— 

"You  are  a  shrewd  varlet,  Michel.  I  '11  make 
the  purchase  as  we  go  out." 

We  found  a  brown  garment  in  sufficient  con 
trast  from  my  own.  The  tailor  smoothed  my 
shoulders  and  pronounced  me  perfect.  "Stand 


We  Travel  Softly  157 

off  a  bit,  Michel,"  I  said,  "and  look  me  up  and 
down !" 

"If  you  bought  a  cap,  Master,  to  match  the 
doublet,  you  would  be  set  up  complete.  Made 
moiselle  would  blink  twice  at  seeing  you." 

"Hush,  Michel!"  I  said,  and  cuffed  him. 
''You  talk  too  much.  It  was  the  cackling  goose 
that  the  fox  caught  for  his  supper." 

I  laid  by  my  cap  reluctantly  with  its  yellow 
feather,  stroking  it  in  my  fingers. 

The  tailor  had  another  cap  at  hand,  and  he 
told  me  its  virtues.  I  slapped  my  silver  on  the 
counter  and  we  came  out. 

A  crowd  had  gathered  about  the  placard  and  a 
priest  was  reading  it  aloud.  Except  for  him,  not 
a  man  could  read.  If  a  man  in  France  so  rouses 
himself  that  he  has  a  desire  to  know  what 's  writ 
ten,  he  goes  bawling  for  a  priest,  then  twirls  his  hat 
and  cocks  his  ear.  Not  a  letter  can  he  get  him 
self. 

As  I  did  not  trust  entirely  to  my  change  of 
doublet,  I  thought  it  best  to  pass  not  too  near 
the  crowd.  Therefore  we  turned  sharply  to  the 
left  into  the  narrow  streets.  The  priest  was  in 
toning  the  words  as  if  they  had  been  the  Beati 
tudes,  pronouncing  my  name  and  misdeeds  in  a 


158  Luca  Sarto 

villainous  minor.  I  was  myself  almost  persuaded 
that  I  was  a  rascal.  But  I  was  soon  beyond  the 
sound  of  it. 

I  observed  now  that  one  of  my  horse's  shoes  was 
loose,  for  it  clappered  on  the  stones.  I  bawled 
out  to  a  man  for  direction  to  a  smithy.  He 
pointed  to  the  next  turning. 

But  when  we  came  to  it,  I  swore  an  oath.  It 
was  plastered  with  a  placard. 

"Here 's  work  for  you,"  I  bawled  within. 
"We  're  in  a  monstrous  hurry." 

The  smith  sopped  his  sweat  and  said.  "In  your 
turn,  Monsieur.  There  's  one  before  you." 

"Who's  he?"  I  asked. 

The  smith  pointed  to  the  placard.  "It 's  a 
man  who  goes  on  the  King's  errand.  It  was  he 
put  up  the  placard." 

I  cast  my  eye  suspiciously  around  the  smithy. 
"And  where  is  he  now?"  I  asked. 

"He  went  off  to  get  his  food,  but  he  gave  me  sil 
ver  to  hurry  with  his  work." 

"I  '11  not  be  put  off,"  I  cried.  "Here  's  double 
the  amount  he  gave.  Shoe  me  first!" 

The  smith  caught  the  glint  of  silver,  then 
agreed. 


We   Travel  Softly  159 

"Did  this  king's  messenger,"  I  asked,  "tell  you 
where  he  was  traveling?" 

The  smith  paused  a  bit  and  wiped  his  nose. 
"Blois  and  Loches,"  he  said,  and  went  on  hammer 
ing  at  my  horse's  shoe. 

Presently  Michel  and  I  were  on  our  way  again. 
"We  've  put  this  fellow  behind  us,  at  least,"  he 
said.  "We  '11  see  no  more  placards  to-day." 

We  were  an  hour  outside  the  city  and  were  trot 
ting  side  by  side,  when  a  thought  came  to  me. 
"Michel,"  I  said,  "methinks  it 's  odd  that  Mais- 
tro  should  kill  Oliver." 

"It  is,  Master." 

"And  it 's  odd,"  I  continued,  "that  Maistro 
broke  into  my  room  at  the  inn  at  Pithiviers." 

"So  it  is." 

"And,  Michel,  the  placard  said  that  Oliver  was 
killed  on  the  steps  of  the  Palais  Saint  Louis. 
That 's  very  odd,  too." 

"And  so  it  is,"  said  Michel,  scratching  his  head. 

"And  then,  do  you  remember  how  the  fellow 
was  scared  at  sight  of  me  when  he  heard  my  name, 
on  our  first  meeting  him  at  Melun?" 

"That  I  do,  Master." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "do  you  smell  nothing?" 


160  Luca  Sarto 

Michel  shook  his  head. 

"Dunce,"  I  said.  "Your  nose  is  stopped.  I 
smell  this.  Both  of  these  attacks  were  meant  for 
me." 

"Blessed  Mary,"  said  Michel  with  a  stupid  look. 

"And  there  's  more  than  that,"  I  said.  "It 's 
the  Orsini  who  sent  him  on  his  dirty  work.  The 
fellow 's  an  Italian.  He  had  just  come  from 
Rome  when  you  saw  him  first.  And  when  he  had 
struck  down  Sarto,  as  he  supposed,  he  was  fleeing 
to  Italy.  Melun  's  on  the  road.  So  when  he  saw 
me,  whom  he  thought  he  had  just  killed,  it  put 
him  in  a  blather  as  though  he  had  seen  a  ghost." 

"As  God  's  above,"  said  Michel. 

"But  he  steadied  himself,"  I  continued,  "when 
he  found  that  his  work  had  not  yet  been  done,  and 
so  contrived  an  excuse  to  join  us." 

We  jogged  awhile  in  silence.  "Then  you 
think,"  said  Michel,  "that  we  shall  meet  Maistro 
again?" 

"We  shall,"  I  answered  him. 

We  came  into  Saint  Dye  at  sundown.  It  was 
to  have  been  our  lodgment  for  the  night. 

There  was  no  placard  on  the  post  before  the 
inn. 

But   luck   had  set   against   us.     We   had   our 


We  Travel  Softly  161 

fingers  in  the  food,  when  we  saw  a  traveler  draw 
rein  before  the  door.  He  rode  a  roan  mare  and 
he  held  a  packet  against  her  neck.  "It 's  the 
family  shirts,  fresh  washed,"  I  thought.  Then  I 
put  my  hand  on  Michel's  arm  and  stayed  his  at 
tention  from  his  meat.  "Michel,"  I  said,  "see 
how  he  is  pegging  something  on  the  post."  But 
Michel  was  rapt  upon  his  rump  and  did  not 
heed  me,  for  a  hungry  belly  has  no  ears. 
"Michel!"  I  said  again,  and  I  shook  him  by  the 
shoulders;  "it's  the  same  rogue  who  pegged  the 
placard  outside  Orleans."  I  craned  forward  from 
the  window.  "This  jest  grows  stale,"  is  how  I 
ended. 

I  put  the  reckoning  on  the  table,  and  stood  in 
the  shadow  of  the  inn  door.  Some  few  villagers 
had  come  up.  By  the  empty  way  they  stared  I 
could  tell  that  not  a  man  could  read.  "Michel," 
I  said,  "we  must  be  off  before  a  priest  appears." 

Michel  moaned  for  the  remnant  of  his  rump 
and  sucked  his  greasy  fingers,  but  I  hushed  him. 
We  took  to  the  road  again.  I  was  in  a  surly 
mood  to  have  my  night  so  broken  in. 

"Master,"  said  Michel,  "where  do  we  spend 
the  night4?" 

"We  can  at  least  crawl  beneath  a  hedge." 


162  Luca  Sarto 

The  night  was  wrapped  in  clouds,  until  not  a 
star  showed  through.  Nature  had  counted  the 
travelers  still  abroad  and,  checking  them  not  be 
yond  her  fingers,  had  thought  it  was  a  proper 
thrift  to  hang  out  no  lamps. 

Woods  lay  upon  the  left,  for  the  wind  stirred 
them.  It  is  music  beyond  the  skill  of  man,  either 
on  reed  or  string.  The  sweet  fluting  soothed  my 
anger. 

And  all  this  hour  we  had  seen  no  light,  nor  any 
outline  of  a  house. 

We  had  now  come  two  hours  beyond  Saint 
Dye.  "We  '11  cabin  ourselves,"  I  said,  "beneath 
the  first  straw  rick.  We  had  best  be  on  the  look 
out." 

Michel  stayed  me.  "Master,"  he  said,  "some 
one  comes  behind." 

I  cocked  my  ear.  There  was  a  sound  upon  the 
road  of  horse's  feet.  "So,  so !  There  's  another 
traveler.  Perhaps  the  wretch  will  tell  us  where 
to  sleep."  Yet  in  precaution  I  faced  about  and 
drew  my  dagger.  The  rider  came  up  with  a  clack. 

"If  you  have  love  for  a  fellow  man,"  he  cried, 
drawing  in  his  horse,  "you  '11  tell  me  if  Blois  is 
near." 


We  Travel  Softly  163 

"Love  will  not  get  you  there  to-night.  It 's 
three  hours  ahead." 

The  stranger  tapped  a  packet  which  he  bore 
before  him  on  the  horse.  "I  am  on  the  King's 
errand." 

Michel  plucked  my  doublet  from  behind.  But 
I,  too,  smelled  a  rat. 

"King's  errand  or  no  king's  errand,  you  can  not 
get  there  to-night.  Do  you  know  the  roads?"  I 
asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"What  do  you  bear  in  your  packet*?" 

"I  am  not  a  scholar,"  he  answered.  "It 's 
words."  He  rubbed  his  head.  "I  have  taken 
not  the  time  to  read  the  thing  entire.  But  there 
has  been  dirty  business  done  in  Paris,  and  I  give 
notice  for  the  catching  of  the  villain.  I  travel  for 
the  King."  He  twitched  his  mustachios  and 
puffed  himself. 

"How  are  the  villains  complexioned*?"  I  asked. 

"God  help  me,"  he  said,  "it  goes  beyond  my 
learning.  I  know  not." 

"Stranger,"  I  said,  "you  had  best  stay  the  night 
with  us.  We  shall  cast  about  for  a  rick." 

"But  I  travel  in  a  hurry,"  he  objected. 


164  Luca  Sarto 

"If  you  are  a  king's  messenger,"  I  said,  "it 's 
well  that  you  know  that  there  is  a  slough  beyond. 
It  would  bog  you.  You  had  best  stay  with  us." 

He  grumbled,  then  yielded  to  us. 

We  rode  our  horses  through  a  hedge  and 
tethered  them  beneath  a  tree.  There  was  a  dry 
rick  near  by.  On  its  far  side  I  dug  a  hole  in  the 
straw.  "I  play  the  host,"  I  told  the  stranger. 
"This  is  your  room.  I  '11  put  you  so  that  you  are 
shielded  from  the  wind.  You  '11  pardon  the  lack 
of  candles."  He  grinned  at  my  jest  and  snuggled 
in  the  straw. 

I  drew  Michel  off  in  the  darkness. 

"Master,"  he  asked,  "shall  I  stick  him?" 

"Fool!"  I  said.  "No!  Would  you  stir  more 
hornets'?  Bunk  alongside  the  fellow.  Be  his 
friend.  But  if  he  gets  up  to  stir  around,  hum  a 
tune!" 

I  prepared  my  own  bed  on  the  other  side  of  the 
rick,  that  side  nearest  the  horses.  I  could  have 
slept  at  once,  but  I  pinched  myself.  Presently 
the  stranger  snored. 

I  rose  quietly.  I  found  his  horse  tethered  be 
neath  a  tree.  The  packet  was  still  tied  upon  the 
saddle.  "This  will  pay  him  for  not  easing  his 
horse  at  night,"  I  thought.  I  untied  the  packet 


We  Travel  Softly  165 

and  removed  it.  Then  I  loosed  the  tether  and 
led  off  the  horse.  There  was  another  rick  in  the 
field.  I  scatched  a  hole  in  it  and  thrust  inside 
the  packet,  ramming  straw  above  it. 

Next  I  led  the  horse  to  the  road  and  slapped 
her  smartly  on  the  rump.  She  trotted  off,  but 
turned  to  look  at  me.  I  pelted  clods  at  her  until 
she  was  gone  from  sight.  "There  will  be  no 
placards,  now,  in  Blois  and  Loches.  I  '11  sleep  the 
better  for  it." 

The  stranger  was  still  snoring. 

I  lay  back  tired.  I  was  cramped  and  sore. 
The  straw  pricked  me  through  my  clothes. 
There 's  no  content  for  travelers.  A  friendly 
witch,  they  say,  carried  Habakkuk  from  Judea  to 
Babylon.  Saint  Ambrose  on  a  sabbath  morning 
was  lifted  in  a  peaceful  trance  from  Milan  to 
Tours  for  Saint  Martin's  funeral.  Would  to 
God  a  comely  witch  would  take  me  on  her  broom 
stick  down  to  Loches  and  save  me  further  bounc 
ing. 

I  drew  the  straw  around  me  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    NEST    IN    A    CAT'S    EAR 

THERE  was  a  pother  in  the  morning,  as  you 
may  be  sure.  To  breed  confidence  in  my 
integrity,  I  upbraided  the  messenger  for  his  man 
ner  of  tethering  his  horse,  showing  him,  as  he 
stormed,  the  Italian  method.  My  teaching  fell 
to  nothing,  for  he  was  distracted  by  his  loss.  As 
for  Michel,  he  played  a  cunning  part  in  the  farce, 
being  so  full  of  grief  at  the  fellow's  mischance 
that  a  tear  stood  on  his  nose.  Michel  has  it  in 
him  to  be  a  mummer.  He  could  play  Hecuba 
and  snivel  with  the  best,  if  he  were  dressed  in 
woman's  clouts. 

The  messenger  delayed  us  an  hour  with  his 
silly  search,  but  found  neither  horse  nor  packet. 
I  had  done  my  work  completely,  and  he  could 
have  leaned  against  the  rick  where  the  packet  was 
hidden  without  knowledge  of  it. 

Finally,  to  end  his  search,  I  offered  him  the 
hinder  end  of  Michel's  horse  until  we  should 
reach  Blois.  He  still  grumbled,  but  took  my 

proffer.     And  so  we  came  to  Blois. 

166 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  167 

At  Blois  the  road  for  Loches  swerves  off.  At 
the  end  of  the  bridge  we  begged  a  breakfast,  and 
while  we  waited  I  rubbed  pig's  grease  on  my  legs. 

As  for  the  messenger,  he  thanked  us  for  our 
civilities,  though  he  said  the  night  had  ruined 
him.  I  never  saw  the  fellow  afterward.  Then 
we  stuffed  us  full  of  curds  and  took  the  road 
again. 

I  do  not  flaunt  the  things  I  've  seen.  Yet  you 
may  care  to  know  how  the  Frenchmen  of  the  Loire 
Valley  erect  their  homes.  They  build  wherever  a 
hill  springs  up,  and  hard  against  it,  so  that  the 
rearward  rooms  are  scooped  from  the  hill  itself. 
As  their  bedrooms  lie  behind,  they  sleep  like 
gnomes  within  a  cave. 

It  was  middle  afternoon  when  we  came  to 
Loches.  The  castle  is  set  on  a  hill  above  it.  I 
looked  at  it  with  no  more  than  a  careless  eye, 
scarcely  marking  the  huge,  square  tower  of  the 
dungeons. 

I  drew  Bonnet's  letter  from  my  poke. 
"  'Loches  is  the  town,'  "  I  readi  "  The  Gray 
Moon  is  the  inn.'  ' 

I  called  to  a  country  lad.  "Direct  me  to  the 
Gray  Moon!"  I  flung  him  a  coin. 

It  was  near  by,  around  the  corner,  and  he  led 


1 68  Luca  Sarto 

the  way,  kicking  up  dust  with  his  toes,  for  he 
played  that  he  was  a  cart-horse. 

It  was  a  comfortable  inn,  with  a  garden  run 
ning  to  the  river  Indre,  which  lies  along  the  town. 
There  was  a  rumor  in  the  place  that  the  King 
was  already  on  the  way  from  Paris,  and  that  he 
would  arrive  on  the  Thursday,  two  days  off. 

"And  the  Court*?"  I  asked.  "Does  it  travel 
with  him1?"  For  my  thoughts  ran  on  Made 
moiselle. 

"Ay,  that  it  does." 

There  was  a  tub  outside  the  kitchen  door. 
"Come  here,  my  lad!"  I  soaped  my  ears  and 
hair,  then  put  my  head  down  inside  the  tub. 
"Now  then,"  I  said,  "pour  the  water  on  me!" 

After  this  I  sought  a  barber.  He  was  mixing  a 
compound  in  a  pewter  pot,  stirring  it  with  a  long 
spoon  and  holding  it  to  his  nose. 

"What's  this?"  I  asked. 

"It 's  a  cure  for  the  stone,"  he  said. 

He  put  down  his  spoon,  and  waved  an  instruc 
tive  finger. 

"Know  this!"  he  said.  "The  stone  is  a 
grievous  malady.  And  here  's  the  cure." 

"It 's  vile  to  smell,"  I  said. 

"I  gather,"  he  continued,  "a  good  quantity  of 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  169 

those  beetles  which  are  found  in  the  dung  of  oxen, 
also  of  crickets  which  sing  in  the  fields.  I  cut  off 
the  heads  and  wings  of  the  crickets  and  put  them 
in  a  pot  with  the  beetles  and  common  oil."  He 
pointed  to  the  mess  upon  his  stove.  "When  they 
have  boiled  for  a  day  I  pound  them  into  powder. 
Has  Monsieur  the  stone?" 

"No,"  I  said. 

He  seemed  disappointed.  "But  perhaps  Mon 
sieur  has  worms.  I  've  a  sovereign  remedy  for 
that." 

"Barber,"  I  said,  "get  your  shears!  My  beard 
needs  trimming.  I  '11  sit  on  the  bench  outside. 
There  's  too  much  stench  in  here." 

He  sighed,  but  brought  his  shears. 

When  he  had  done,  he  sprinkled  me  with  sweet 
scent  and  held  up  a  glass.  I  commended  him 
upon  my  looks  and  came  away. 

From  the  window  of  my  room  there  was  a  view 
of  the  garden  and  the  castle  on  the  hill.  Pres 
ently  Michel  rapped.  I  called  to  him  to  enter. 

"I  've  been  about  the  town,"  he  said. 

"So?" 

"And  I  spied  into  all  the  drinking  shops,"  he 
continued. 

"You  are  none  the  worse.     It  was  thin  wine." 


170  Luca  Sarto 

Michel  gave  me  a  sly  look.  "I  thought  to  find 
Maistro,"  he  said. 

"Eh?" 

"But  I  found  him  not,  Master." 

It  was  shrewd  of  Michel,  and  I  praised  him. 
Then  as  the  kitchen  bell  rang,  I  sent  him  off  and 
sought  my  dinner.  A  serving  wench  stood  in  the 
hall.  I  gave  her  my  boots.  "Clean  them  and 
grease  them,  my  dear,  and  set  them  by  my  door!" 

She  was  young  and  slim.  I  called  her  back. 
"Here  's  for  your  pains,  my  love,"  I  said.  And  I 
offered  to  kiss  her.  We  must  keep  the  sweet  crea 
tures  content. 

But  judge  my  amazement!  She  slapped  me 
and  ran  off. 

I  was  startled.  Here  was  something  new. 
Pest!  I  thought.  Have  my  looks  gone  off1? 
Am  I  humped?  Has  the  comet  withered  me? 
But  I  found  comfort.  It  was  my  old  brown 
doublet,  bought  in  Orleans.  Yet,  the  girl's  wits, 
doubtless,  were  somewhat  touched.  But  I  did 
not  follow  her.  The  wench  was  angry.  When 
a  woman  blows  to  a  tempest,  it 's  wise  to  keep  in 
shelter. 

She  slammed  the  door,  and,  by  the  sound,  she 
hurled  mv  boots  down  the  back  stairs. 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  171 

I  was  tired.  Minorites  and  pilgrims  thrive  on 
dust  and  mud,  but  I  am  content  at  home.  I  'd 
rather  be  a  Benedictine  and  sit  in  slippers  with 
my  hands  folded  on  my  paunch. 

In  the  public  room,  where  my  table  was  laid, 
were  country  people  who  had  brought  their  pro 
duce  to  market — a  sloven  company,  who  now 
drank  their  profit  in  wine,  not  malmsey  or  mus- 
cadel,  but  some  unvintaged  juice  pressed  from 
near-by  vineyards.  I  ordered  the  boy  to  change 
my  plates  to  a  table  far  from  their  stinking  com 
pany. 

Then,  remembering  the  clasp  whereby  Monsieur 
Bonnet  or  his  servant  was  to  know  me,  I  fetched 
it  from  my  poke  and  pinned  it  on  like  a  lady's 
favor.  I  stood  up  and  faced  all  ways,  on  the 
chance  that  he  or  his  servant  was  already  in  the 
room.  There  was  no  response. 

I  now  summoned  the  landlord  and  asked  him 
what  wines  there  were  in  the  house,  fit  for  an 
Italian's  thirst.  At  this  he  rubbed  his  hands  to 
gether  as  if  the  air  before  him  were  a  washing 
sink.  He  was  so  fat  a  man  he  could  have  played 
the  drum  upon  his  belly. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  and  cast  his  eyes  slantwise 
on  the  other  tables,  "those  are  cheap  juices." 


172  Luca  Sarto 

Then  his  face  lighted.     "Ah,  Monsieur,  I  have  a 
golden  vintage  in  my  cellar !" 

"There  's  a  proverb,  landlord,"  I  said,  "that 
wine  in  the  cellar  quenches  no  man's  thirst"  r 

He  ran  off,  but  came  again,  bearing  a  bottle. 
He  pressed  his  fat  knees  together  on  it,  hunched 
himself,  and  pulled  the  cork.  He  wiped  its  mouth 
as  tenderly  as  a  mother  would  a  babe's,  and  filled 
my  glass.  Then  he  stood  off,  to  watch  the  marvel 
of  my  drinking  such  nectar. 

It  was  fair  and  middling,  worth  smacking  the 
lips,  perhaps,  if  the  gullet  is  dusty,  but  not  a  wine 
to  make  an  occasion  of.  It  would  do  for  a  fourth 
round  when  the  singing  starts.  Yet  there  was 
honest  grape  in  it,  and  it  had  aged  somewhat. 
Sarto  does  not  growl  upon  his  food  and  drink. 
If  the  wine  is  thin,  he  does  not  tell  how  he  has 
had  it  better.  Or  if  a  platter  is  unsavory,  he  does 
not  cast  it  at  the  cook.  "Mine  host,"  I  said, 
"your  wine  is  good.  Leave  the  bottle  by.  When 
I  want  another,  I  '11  pound  upon  the  table." 

The  evening  wore  on.  No  one  had  bespoken 
me  about  the  clasp.  One  by  one  the  villagers 
left  with  empty  baskets,  but  full  as  ticks  inside. 
There  were  now  but  three  of  them  remained.  I 
looked  upon  them  hard  and  tapped  my  clasp  in 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  173 

invitation.  They  were  sottish  beyond  feigning. 
One  by  one  their  chins  went  to  their  chests,  and 
their  heads  waggled  uneasily  from  side  to  side, 
by  reason  of  the  slop  inside. 

My  thoughts  were  not  sweet.  Here  had  I 
pelted.  It  would  have  been  better  manners  if 
this  Jacques  had  been  more  exact  to  have  me  met. 
Having  sat  for  an  hour  beyond  my  meat,  I  con 
cluded  that  the  game  was  off  for  the  night.  It 
was  likely  that  he  had  given  me  four  days  to  make 
the  trip  from  Melun.  And  four  days  it  would 
have  been  if  Maistro  had  not  lured  me  to  the  road 
side  inn  to  dispatch  me  with  greater  safety  to 
himself. 

I  swallowed  the  remnant  of  my  wine,  put  the 
landlord  aside  who  vowed  he  had  Bacchus's  own 
bottle  in  the  cellar,  and  passed  into  the  lower  hall 
to  bed.  At  the  end  of  ten  steps  I  was  confronted 
by  one  of  the  countrymen.  He  stopped  short 
before  me. 

"By  sailor's  pox,"  he  said,  "I  have  lost  it." 

"Lost  what?"  I  asked. 

He  drew  me  away  from  the  door.  Then, 
screened  from  sight,  he  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips 
and,  plunging  his  hand  into  his  cloak,  brought  out 
the  other  half  of  the  clasp  I  wore. 


174  Luc  a  Sarto 

"If  it 's  lost,  there  's  an  end  on  it,"  he  said 
loudly.  "How  the  old  woman  will  storm!" 
Thereat,  in  opposition  to  his  words,  a  grin  went 
paddling  around  the  margin  of  his  mouth. 

He  moved  away,  leaving  me  perplexed.  His 
steps  were  dying  in  the  upper  hall. 

I  followed.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  I  lighted  a 
taper  and,  protecting  the  light  with  my  fingers,  I 
hastened  down  the  bare  hall.  I  came  on  him 
again.  He  motioned  me  not  to  speak. 

I  followed  him  down  a  rear  staircase  to  the 
kitchen.  Here  in  a  reddish  light  from  embers  on 
the  hearth,  Michel  was  conjugating  "amo"  to  a 
wench's  ear,  which  was  close-set  for  fullest  knowl 
edge.  In  such  matters,  I  fear,  Michel  is  a  cun 
ning  schoolman.  He  was  already  in  the  perfect 
tense,  for  his  arm  was  about  her  waist,  with  plus 
quam  perfectum  still  to  come. 

Without  heeding  his  pot-and-kettle  love,  we 
passed  through  to  the  stable  yard.  In  the  sudden 
darkness  I  bumped  against  a  cart.  There  was  a 
snickering  from  the  stable  door.  '  'Fore  God— 
I  began,  and  peered  hard  to  see  from  whom  the 
sound  had  come.  "I  '11  teach  you  manners." 
Dimly  I  could  now  see  the  outline  of  a  row  of 
men  on  the  rim  of  the  horse  trough.  The  snick- 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  175 

ering  ceased.  There  was  one  of  better  manners 
who,  in  a  squeaking  voice,  most  unnatural  and 
like  a  woman's,  begged  pardon  for  the  slight. 
And  now,  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  must  have 
been  Maistro  himself,  in  falsetto  for  disguise. 

My  guide  and  I  came  to  the  street  before  the 
inn.  At  the  turn  he  set  his  ear  back  upon  the 
yard.  There  was  a  stir  inside. 

"Monsieur  Sarto,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "did 
you  mark  the  fellows  on  the  trough1?" 

"I  marked  their  lack  of  manners,"  I  answered. 

''It 's  queer  that  there  were  five  of  them,  when 
there  were  but  two  hostlers  in  the  stable."  He 
shook  his  head  in  thought. 

He  pulled  my  sleeve.  "We've  other  business. 
Let  us  hurry!" 

At  a  trot  he  led  me  down  the  street.  It  was  a 
laggard  pace.  He  was  a  sorry  runner,  short  of 
breath,  and  continually  sniveling  at  his  nose. 

Above  us  on  the  hill  were  the  lights  of  build 
ings.  He  jerked  his  thumb  in  their  direction. 
"It 's  the  castle,"  he  panted.  "Mother  of  God 
protect  us  from  the  dungeons !"  He  crossed  him 
self  and  hurried  on.  Through  an  atmosphere 
that  was  as  thick  as  seven  veils,  I  saw  blurred 
lights  aloft  and  the  bulk  of  towering  buildings. 


176  Luca  Sarto 

Fog  is  like  a  gossip's  tongue  for  stretching  things. 
Loches,  in  truth,  is  a  mighty  pile,  but  through  the 
murk  and  scum  it  stood  like  a  Tower  of  Babel  to 
threaten  heaven. 

We  had  come  at  farthest  the  length  of  a 
longish  church — two  hundred  paces — when  a 
cross  street  slanted  into  the  darkness.  There  was 
a  flare  of  light  from  a  lantern  overhead.  I  looked 
back  toward  the  inn. 

In  the  glow  from  the  door  I  saw  a  man  run  from 
the  yard.  Close  upon  him  came  two  others.  He 
was  urging  them  with  oaths. 

I  laughed  aloud.  "The  fellow  is  an  Italian  of 
my  acquaintance."  I  was  for  standing  to  him, 
and  I  peered  about  for  the  advantage  of  a  step. 

But  my  guide  would  have  none  of  it.  "Later," 
he  whispered.  "When  your  message  has  been 
given  there  will  be  time." 

"You  make  Sarto  out  a  coward,"  I  said,  but  I 
gave  up  to  him. 

We  slipped  into  the  darkness  of  the  cross-lane, 
and  came  before  a  building  with  a  flight  of  steps 
before  it.  There  was  a  bakeshop  below.  Up 
these  stairs  we  bolted.  The  door  at  the  top  was 
locked,  but  flew  open  when  we  kicked. 

But  we  were  too  late.     Our  pursuers  had  heard 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  177 

the  rummage,  and  they  came  running  around  the 
corner.  I  drew  my  sword,  and  stood  on  the  top 
most  step.  "Maistro,"  I  cried,  "perhaps  you  will 
be  the  first  to  mount  the  steps."  He  had  come 
pelting  to  the  foot,  but  paused  when  I  made  a 
stand.  "Perhaps  the  Orsini,"  I  sneered,  "send  a 
message  by  their  lackey.  If  so,  I  '11  take  it  now." 

He  stood  snarling  on  the  lowest  step,  yet  durst 
not  mount. 

"It  were  a  pity,"  I  continued,  "to  come  so  far 
upon  an  errand,  and  yet  fail  in  the  issue  of  it."  I 
tapped  my  swordpoint  on  the  rail.  "Come  up, 
you  whelp!" 

Maistro  put  his  foot  upon  the  second  step,  and 
beckoned  to  his  underlings. 

"Ha,"  I  cried,  "you  come  in  numbers." 

As  I  stood  thus,  facing  the  villains,  I  heard  the 
house  door  close  behind  me.  I  dared  not  turn,  yet 
knew  that  I  stood  alone.  But  I  cried,  "He  's  gone 
to  bring  out  cates.  We  '11  have  a  picnic  on  the 
stairs.  I  will  furnish  fresh  meat."  At  the  word 
I  drove  at  Maistro  and  forced  him  to  the  lowest 
step.  Yet  I  was  fretted  why  my  guide  had  left 
me  alone. 

Maistro  was  balked.  It  took  a  deal  of  courage 
to  meet  my  sword  upon  the  steps.  Had  it  been 


1 78  Luca  Sarto 

upon  the  level,  he  could  have  set  his  varlets  on 
me  three  ways  at  once.  But  none  of  the  knaves 
liked  the  glitter  of  my  sword  as  I  stood  above 
them. 

"Maistro," — still  I  taunted  him — "show  these 
Frenchmen  what  courage  an  Italian  has!  Be 
yourself  the  first  to  come!" 

He  bit  his  nails  and  had  no  stomach  for  it. 
"Five  gold  crowns,"  he  cried,  "for  the  first  man 
up  the  steps." 

"And  for  the  same  fellow,"  I  shouted  back,  "a 
crown,  also,  that 's  cracked  and  bloody." 

Then  on  a  sudden  one  of  the  villains  made  a 
leap.  As  the  saints  live,  my  sword  went  clean 
through  him.  He  tumbled  off  its  point,  and 
rolled  from  stone  to  stone.  I  cried  out  like  a 
barber,  "Who  comes  the  next  for  the  clipping?" 

But  even  as  I  shouted,  and  when  my  sword  was 
scarcely  quit  of  him,  the  other  varlets  pressed  up 
the  steps.  The  first  of  these  was  Maistro.  To 
get  a  clearer  sweep  for  my  sword,  I  stepped  back 
to  the  sill  of  the  door.  Maistro  was  upon  the 
level  before  I  lunged  at  him.  He  was  a  saucy 
fellow  to  think  he  could  parry  my  thrust.  If 
there  had  been  a  priest  by,  he  must  needs  have 
muttered  quick.  Maistro  could  have  had  but  a 


A  Nest  in  a  Cat's  Ear  179 

short  shrift.  A  shovel  was  needed  for  the  making 
of  his  bed.  Short  words  are  best.  He  lay  dead 
at  my  feet. 

The  other  two  rogues  faltered.  Then,  as  I 
turned  upon  them,  they  bolted  down. 

And  now,  mark  the  ill-luck  that  ended  the 
fight,  which  else  had  ended  to  my  honor.  In  my 
zeal  I  leaped  after  them,  but  caught  my  foot  on 
Maistro's  body  as  it  lay  on  the  upper  step.  It 
pitched  me  to  the  street.  It  might  have  been  the 
death  of  me,  for  I  fell  twice  my  length  upon  the 
cobbles. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A    HINT    FOR    MY    TOMBSTONE 

I  STAGGERED  to  my  feet  and  bawled  to  the 
rogues  that  I  would  meet  them  on  the  level. 
But  they  had  run  off  in  the  darkness.  This,  at 
least,  was  a  piece  of  luck,  for  I  had  snapped  my 
sword  off  short.  Also,  in  putting  my  hand  upon 
my  cheek  to  mop  the  sweat,  I  found  fresh  blood 
upon  it.  And  a  pain  ran  through  my  shoulder. 

"I  '11  best  put  into  harbor  for  a  bit,"  I  thought. 
And  I  clambered  up  the  steps.  "If  this  Jacques 
Bonnet  is  within,  perhaps  he  will  let  me  pass  the 
night." 

The  door  stood  ajar,  and  I  pushed  it  open. 

First  there  was  an  entry  with  stairs  leading  to 
the  floor  above.  I  listened,  but  not  a  sound  came 
down.  Beyond  was  a  room  with  a  fire  upon  the 
hearth.  By  its  light  I  saw  a  table  and  two  chairs. 
On  the  table  was  a  bottle  of  wine  and  a  remnant 
of  supper.  There  was  a  candlestick,  also,  but  it 
lay  upon  its  side  with  a  smear  of  grease  upon  the 

cloth.     "I  've  broken  up  a  banquet,"  I  thought. 

180 


A  Hint  for  My  Tombstone          181 

"They  have  run  off  before  the  dessert  came  on." 

Then  I  called,  "Jacques  Bonnet,  here  's  Sarto 
with  a  message  for  you !"  but  got  only  an  echo  for 
my  answer. 

While  I  was  standing  thus,  a  wave  of  dizziness 
came  on  me.  It  blinded  me,  and  the  room 
whirled,  but  I  held  to  the  chair-back  until  it 
passed.  "Eh,"  I  thought,  "it 's  the  clout  upon 
the  head." 

With  such  pennyworth  of  wit  as  the  fit  left  me, 
there  now  occurred  to  me  what  Mademoiselle  had 
told  me  about  her  letter,  how  I  must  read  it  if  any 
danger  threatened  me.  "I  'm  in  a  parlous  state," 
I  thought.  "I  had  best  read  it  quick." 

I  leaned  against  the  chair-back  to  steady  me  and 
drew  it  from  my  poke.  "Now,"  I  muttered,  "if 
my  brain  holds,  I  '11  see  what  Diane  has  written. 

"  'Dearest  Jacques,'  I  read,  but  the  paper 
twitched  in  my  unsteady  fingers.  'I  have  come 
from  the  north  and  the  white  rose  has  bloomed. 
From  Rouen  I  sent  word  to  the  west — to  Nor 
mandy  and  Brittany — as  I  was  bade.  The  word, 
they  say,  has  already  gone  to  the  south,  where 
Aragon  awaits  it.  Now,  Jacques,  I  send  the 
word  to  you  for  your  knowledge  and  safety. 
And  now  the  time  is  coming  when  I  shall  come  to 


1 82  Luca  Sarto 

you.' '  Again  I  faltered,  for  the  paper  was  a 

blur  before  me.  When  the  letters  had  returned 
to  their  proper  places  I  went  forward.  And  this 
time  I  was  able  to  finish  it. 

"  'I  came  into  Paris  last  night,  aided  by  an  artist 
whose  name  is  Luca  Sarto.  He  will  be  the  bearer 
of  this  letter.  My  reason  is  that  he  is  not  a 
Frenchman,  but  I  have  other  reasons  also.  Poor 
Antoine,  who  carried  the  last!  Now,  Jacques, 
this  is  not  a  woman's  work,  and  I  long  to  be  done 
with.  it.  Paris  is  lonely,  and  sometimes  at  night  I 
hear  the  bells  across  the  ciy,  and  I  wish  they  were 
the  bells  of  Ghent,  sounding  the  hour  when  you 
will  come  to  me.  With  all  the  love  in  my  heart, 
thine.  Diane.'  " 

I  tossed  it  in  the  fire. 

It  was  well  the  letter  was  no  longer,  for  I  reeled 
when  I  had  finished  it.  "Sarto,  Sarto,  you  fool," 
I  muttered,  "it 's  a  white  rose.  I  must  tell  Bon 
net  the  color  of  it.  Methinks  the  fire  's  gone  out. 
The  letter's  burnt.  Maistro,  you  dog,  there 's 
blood  smeared  on  my  cheek.  You  had  best  come 
up,  you  whelp!  It's  a  pretty  blaze,  yet  how  it 
heats  my  head!  The  rose  is  the  color  of  Made 
moiselle's  hand — Michel,  the  King  has  fallen  in  a 
fit—" 


A  Hint  for  My  Tombstone          183 

And  now  confusion  was  down  on  me.  The 
room  turned  black.  Thought  slipped  into  a  mist, 
and  I  knew  nothing  more. 

With  grief  I  write  this  ending,  that  Sarto 
should  stub  his  toe  upon  a  bakeshop  steps  like  a 
country  lout.  If  I  had  killed  irtyself  it  would 
have  been  to  my  dishonor.  How  would  the  Latin 
have  looked  upon  my  tombstone*?  Hie  jacet 
Luca  Sarto,  aurifex  praestantius,  qui  gloriam 
tnundi  pinxit,  qui — stubbed  his  toe  and  broke  his 
neck. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IF    ADAM    HAD    KEPT    HIS    RIB 

AS  some  of  you  who  read  this  chronicle  may 
have  taken  a  fondness  for  Sarto,  I  '11  com 
fort  you.  He  lived.  To  this  day,  however,  he 
bears  a  scar  above  one  eye.  Yet  his  wits  returned 
to  him,  as  the  issue  of  these  adventures  will  prove. 

The  fire  still  burned  when  my  sense  came  back. 
I  looked  about  and  was  glad  to  see  that  the  fur 
niture  of  earth  was  still  around  me.  "As  I  'm  a 
sinner,"  I  thought,  "I  had  fears  where  I  might 
awake." 

I  stirred  myself  and  sat  up.  I  am  not  a  leach. 
I  profess  neither  physic  nor  anatomy.  It  will 
suffice  that  there  was  a  monstrous  thumping  in  my 
head. 

I  pulled  myself  stiffly  to  the  hearth  and  put  my 
face  in  its  light.  On  the  stones  were  the  charred 
remnants  of  the  letter,  but  as  yet  they  recalled 
nothing  to  me. 

There  was  a  bottle  on  the  table.     The  wine,  if 

any  were  left,  would  revive  me.     The  bottle  was 

184 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib        185 

half  full.  After  drinking,  I  leaned  my  head 
against  the  chimney  and  let  my  wits  come  in. 
"So?"  I  thought.  "I  had  a  letter  by  me.  There 
was  matter  in  it  about  a  rose.  I  burned  it."  I 
took  a  faggot  from  the  fire  and  scrawled  the  word 
"white"  upon  the  stones.  "It  will  not  slip  me 
now." 

My  dull  head  was  in  sad  disorder.  I  sipped 
more  wine  and  ate  a  cate  that  I  found  upon  the 
table.  It  was  the  medicine  that  I  needed.  There 
was  a  clout  upon  a  chair-back,  for  drying  plates. 
I  sopped  it  in  a  cup  of  water,  and  I  poured  on 
vinegar.  Then  I  tied  it  on  my  head.  Perhaps 
the  sourness  would  draw  off  the  pain.  I  placed  a 
stick  upon  the  fire,  and  sat  with  my  fingers  crossed 
upon  my  knee.  "While  my  disorder  lasts,"  I 
moaned,  "I  '11  not  be  so  skillful  in  a  fight  as  a 
Frenchman  even,  God  pity  me." 

And  then  I  laughed,  but  it  was  mirth  as  sour 
as  vinegar.  The  last  part  of  Diane's  letter  had 
come  back  to  me.  She  had  once  denied  that  I 
journeyed  to  her  lover.  And  yet  here  she  bade 
this  Jacques  to  come  to  her.  "By  Venus,"  I 
sneered,  "I  am  a  postboy.  I  am  a  good  honest 
fellow,  and  Mademoiselle  entrusts  me  with  her 
love  letters."  It  is  no  wonder  it  made  me  sour. 


1 86  Luca  Sarto 

A  pair  of  black  eyes  in  Rome  would  have  laughed 
at  my  discomfort.  And  a  pair  of  brown  eyes,  too. 
For  somewhat  of  life  lay  behind  me.  I  had  jigged 
to  more  than  one  tune  of  love. 

I  was  fast  coming  into  an  ugly  mood.  I  sopped 
the  bandage  again,  and  sulked  against  the  bricks. 

And  now  I  heard  a  creaking  in  the  ceiling  over 
head.  "Soft,"  I  said,  "perhaps  the  lover 's  up 
above.  I  must  con  my  lesson."  I  listened.  But 
if  you  wait  for  a  sound  and  hold  your  breath,  it 
hangs  off  to  make  you  fret.  Finally  there  came 
another  creaking. 

This  was  followed  by  a  sound  from  the  stairs 
— boots  a-tiptoe  and  steel  against  the  rail.  I  con 
cealed  myself  behind  the  angle  of  the  chimney- 
piece.  My  broken  sword  mocked  me.  My  bad 
wrist,  also,  pled  for  peace. 

A  man  had  come  to  the  doorway — a  French 
man,  for  his  clothing  was  of  the  mode  of  Paris. 
The  chimney  corner  lay  in  shadow  and,  though 
he  gazed  hard  at  it,  he  did  not  see  me.  Then  he 
bent  over  the  fire,  so  that  his  face  was  in  its  glow 
and  quite  distinct. 

The  face  puzzled  me.  It  was  familiar,  yet  I 
could  not  place  it.  No  matter!  This  was  the 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib        187 

fellow  to  whom  I  must  repeat  the  pretty  story  of 
the  ringing  bells.  And  he  might  give  me  for  my 
pains  a  silver  coin,  or  say,  "Good  fellow,"  or  pat 
my  shoulder.  It 's  a  pity  that  Sarto  is  not  a 
lackey  to  enjoy  being  fawned  on. 

The  word  "white"  that  I  had  scrawled  upon 
the  stones  had  caught  his  eye.  Then  it  came  to 
me  why  his  face  was  familiar.  He  resembled 
Diane.  "Eh,"  I  thought,  "is  it  possible4?  Per 
haps  the  man  is  her  brother." 

I  leaned  back  against  the  chimney  and  laughed 
aloud.  It  cost  me  an  ugly  bruise.  He  jumped 
to  his  feet  and  leaped  on  me.  The  impact  threw 
me  to  the  floor  and  his  knees  well  nigh  knocked 
the  breath  from  me.  Then  he  shook  me  and 
asked  me  who  I  was.  "You  have  a  rare  good 
humor,"  he  said,  as  I  lay  there  under  his  knees. 

"A  rare  good  thought  came  to  me,"  I  replied. 
"I  have  been  journeying  four  days  to  find 
Jacques  Bonnet,  and  now,  Jacques  Motier,  I  find 
that  my  message  is  for  you." 

"You  have  a  message  for  me4?"  He  was  eager 
all  at  once. 

"When  you  climb  down  off  my  stomach,  I  '11 
have  better  breath  to  talk."  I  had  been  so 


1 88  Luca  Sarto 

pummeled  that  I  ached.  I  stretched  myself  and 
smoothed  me  off.  "Now  then,"  I  said.  "I  'm 
listening." 

He  squinted  at  me  sharply.  "Whose  message 
do  you  carry?" 

"I'll  tell  you  when  you  match  this  clasp." 

"You  're  a  careful  messenger."  He  displayed 
its  mate.  "You  have  a  letter  for  me?" 

"I  had  one.  It 's  burned  now  as  crisp  as 
Judas.  It  was  from  your  sister,  Mademoiselle 
Diane." 

"Diane?  Pardon  my  laggard  greeting.  My 
servant  misreported  you,  distrusting  the  ruf- 
flers  that  came  behind." 

I  delivered  my  message.  I  told  him  of  the 
white  rose  that  was  blooming  in  its  English  gar 
den,  feeling  like  a  fool  at  uttering  such  silliness. 
Like  all  Italians,  I  was  ignorant  of  the  trivial 
history  of  England,  and  what  the  white  rose  meant 
to  them.  One  cannot  know  what  is  happening  in 
all  the  petty  corners  of  the  world. 

But  at  the  first  word  Motier  gave  a  cry  of  joy 
and  hurled  his  hat  to  the  ceiling. 

"May  the  saints  bless  the  English !"  he  cried. 

I  was  confused.  "Why  does  Mademoiselle  tell 
you  that  a  rose  is  white?"  I  asked. 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib        189 

"Because  it  is  not  red,"  Jacques  answered. 
Then  he  shifted  from  the  subject,  leaving  his 
riddle  unanswered. 

"There  is  a  man  lying  dead  upon  the  steps,"  he 
said,  "and  we  had  best  make  speed  upon  our  busi 
ness.  When  does  my  sister  come  to  Loches*?" 

"She  comes  in  the  train  of  Louis." 

"So?  It's  in  a  day  or  two."  Then  again: 
"In  this  letter  from  my  sister,  did  she  write  of  a 
Norman  messenger*?" 

"It 's  likely  enough.  I  have  forgotten  it  in  my 
dulness." 

"And  perhaps  she  mentioned  Aragon?" 

I  nodded. 

"And  of  course  Burgundy  was  not  forgotten4?" 

"My  recollection  's  blurred.  Yet  I  follow  you 
not,  Monsieur." 

Motier  waved  me  off  and  fell  to  muttering. 
It  was  half  aloud,  and  yet  I  could  not  hear 
all.  "Guienne — the  King's  brother.  Aragon4? 
It 's  sure  he  '11  come.  Charles,  of  course.  Then 
Brittany,  if  things  sort  right  for  him.  Then- 
let  's  see !  Ha !  Bourbon.  Now !  No  matter 
how  the  wind  shall  blow,  the  King  will  get  the 
smudge  of  it.  Stay !  In  two  days  Diane  arrives. 
It  is  timed  to  the  day.  We  had  best  travel  be- 


190  Luca  Sarto 

fore  the  smudge  sets  in.     You,  sir.     What  do  I 
call  you?" 
"Luca  Sarto." 

"Well  then,  Luca  Sarto,  we  lie  deep  in  your 
debt."  He  cast  his  eye  sharply  on  me.  "I  must 
see  my  sister  when  she  arrives.  How  shall  I  con 
trive  it*?"  He  rubbed  his  chin  in  thought.  "My 
face  looks  best  by  candle-light  in  Loches.  If  the 
broad  sun  fell  on  me,  it  would  endanger  my  com 
plexion.  I  '11  be  blunt,  Monsieur.  Will  you 
bring  my  sister  to  me,  at  a  place  that  I  shall 
specify1?" 

"If  Mademoiselle  permits,"  I  answered. 
"Do  you  know  the  roads  about  Leches'?" 
"I  know  the  road  to  Blois,  naught  else." 
He  shook  his  head.     "It 's  the  road  that  the 
King  must  travel."     Then  he  pounded  with  his 
fist.     "Listen!"    he    said.     "Four    miles    out    of 
Loches  on  the  road  to  Montrichard,  there  is  a  stone 
bridge  with  pointed  arch  and  a  friar's  lodge  on  it. 
A  quarter  mile  beyond  this  bridge,  there  is  a  low 
building  that  was  once  a  farmhouse,  but  is  now 
deserted.     Bring  my  sister  there  at  dusk  on  the 
night    following   her    arrival.     The   stir   of    the 
King's  arrival  will  come  to  me,  so  I  will  know  the 
dny." 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib         191 

He  paused  and  looked  at  the  window  where  a 
streak  of  dawn  came  through.  "Eh,"  he  said,  "I 
thought  I  heard  a  cock.  Loches  is  no  place  for  me 
in  daylight.  You  will  keep  appointment  with 
me?"  he  asked. 

"If  Mademoiselle  will  be  persuaded." 

"Bid  Diane  wear  garments  fit  for  traveling." 

He  waved  me  good-by  and  was  gone.  His  feet 
sounded  lightly  on  the  outside  steps. 

I  grinned  at  his  departure.  Here  had  I  been 
fretting  how  I  might  meet  Mademoiselle,  and 
Jacques  had  furnished  me  a  way.  Yet  I  groaned 
what  a  rueful  lover  I  would  be.  My  jauntiness 
had  fallen  off.  There  was  not  so  much  frisk  in 
me  as  in  an  old  hound.  And  here  was  a  bump  on 
my  head  as  though  all  the  learning  of  Pavia  sat 
within. 

Presently  I  thought  how  Maistro  lay  upon  the 
steps.  "It  was  in  defense,"  I  thought.  "I  have 
a  witness  that  I  was  set  upon.  Yet  there  would 
be  no  pleasure  in  coming  before  a  magistrate. 
I  'd  best  be  away  from  this  before  the  town 
awakes." 

The  dawn  was  up,  but  no  one  was  about. 
Maistro's  body  lay  as  I  had  left  it.  I  walked  to 
the  Gray  Moon. 


192  Luca  Sarto 

A  boy  was  sopping  up  the  night's  disorder,  and 
making  a  bad  business  of  it. 

Now,  I  am  scarcely  ever  merry  in  the  morning. 
Until  the  ninth  hour  you  'd  think  me  a  Scotsman. 
But  this  morning  I  was  particularly  grumpy.  I  'd 
had  no  wink  of  good  sleep.  I  'd  been  trounced 
and  rolled  about  and  sat  upon.  Each  several  rib 
had  its  own  complaint. 

"Boy,"  I  called  out  sourly,  "if  you  have 
swine's  grease  and  isinglass,  or  any  kind  of  pil 
grim's  salve,  mix  it  quick,  or  I  '11  fall  apart!  I 
squeak  like  a  dry  wheel.  A  dozen  rogues  have 
sat  on  me  and  jounced  me  up  and  down." 

I  trailed  him  to  the  kitchen,  cuffing  him  for 
smirking  at  my  lameness.  We  stirred  the  embers 
and  set  a  suet  on  them.  The  cook  had  been 
awakened  by  the  clatter  and  she  put  her  head  in 
side  the  door,  but  I  told  her  to  go  about  her  busi 
ness  and  mind  her  pans.  Then  I  peeled  my  cloth 
ing  and  set  the  boy  to  rubbing  in  the  grease.  The 
boy  beat  my  clothes  while  I  washed.  I  nearly 
flooded  the  kitchen  with  the  splash,  yet  it  refreshed 
me.  "And  now,  my  pretty  dear,"  I  said,  "set  me 
out  my  breakfast !" 

My  bath  had  made  me  new.  For  my  greater 
ease  I  lay  back  full  length  upon  the  settle.  I  was 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib        193 

as  happy  as  a  turtle  in  the  sun.  Part  of  the  time 
I  watched  the  brew  upon  the  stove,  and  found 
uses  for  the  pans  and  hooks  that  hung  above  me 
from  the  beams.  But  the  cook  was  of  a  tidy 
figure,  and  most  of  the  time  I  watched  her  ankles 
as  she  whisked  about. 

I  've  puzzled  how  it  is  that  cooks,  only  by  look 
ing  on  the  cover  of  a  pot,  can  tell  when  a  topmost 
succulence  is  reached.  A  man  keeps  lifting  up  the 
lid  to  see  the  bubbles  at  their  work,  and  he  pulls  it 
raw  off  the  fire.  It  takes  a  woman's  fingers,  too, 
to  pinch  out  salt.  A  man  tilts  the  can  so  that  the 
food's  a  brine.  These  things  lie  deep  in  nature. 
There  was  a  good  cook  spoiled  when  Jeanne  d'Arc 
took  to  horse.  Had  she  kept  to  her  woman's  task, 
it  had  been  a  quieter  France.  It  was  a  peppery 
broth  she  stirred,  and  many  kecked  on  the  eating 
of  it. 

My  errand  at  Loches  was  done.  It  was  a 
simple  errand,  and  I  wondered  why  such  mystery 
had  surrounded  it.  It  was  left  to  conduct  the 
Lady  Diane  to  her  masquerading  brother  and  then 
I  would  go  free. 

And  now,  suddenly,  I  saw  clearly  what  had 
been  but  glimmering  the  night  before — the  mean 
ing  of  the  letter  that  I  had  carried  between  brother 


194  Luca  Sarto 

and  sister.  The  brother  was  in  arms  against  the 
King,  a  man  attainted,  who  would  be  turned  over, 
if  captured,  to  Tristan,  the  King's  headsman. 
Him  I  had  not  met.  Yet  the  strands  of  his  life 
and  mine  were  destined  to  cross.  A  sad  snarl, 
this.  And  Diane  was  a  spy,  living  within  sight 
of  the  Tournelles,  reporting  the  French  and 
English  plans  to  Normandy  and  Brittany.  The 
white  rose  was  the  House  of  York;  and  rumor 
had  it  that  York  was  the  friend  of  Burgundy. 
Of  York  was  Edward.  Had  he  won  in  battle 
and  was  he  again  King  of  England?  If  this  were 
so,  I  had  thrust  myself  dangerously  into  poliics. 

From  my  window  I  looked  over  the  brown- 
tiled  roofs  of  the  town,  and  beyond,  at  the  gray 
walls  of  the  dungeon,  heavily  set  on  the  hill. 
Even  in  the  morning  sunlight  the  walls  were  grim 
and  terrible.  I  did  not  wish  to  play  the  game  of 
politics.  It  led  too  certainly  to  the  gallows. 

I  had  seen  Montfaucon,  aforetime,  on  the  Rue 
Saint  Denis.  On  its  gibbet,  in  the  dusk  and  in 
distinct,  I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  man's  form 
swinging  in  the  wind — light-footed  in  a  hangman's 
galliard.  Then  toward  me  the  wind  blew,  and 
again  I  knew  the  presence  of  this  crow's  meat 
dancer. 


//  Adam  Had  Kept  His  Rib        195 

At  this  recollection — with  the  sweat  on  me — I 
was  hot  for  washing  my  hands  of  the  whole  miser 
able  business.  If  the  Lady  Diane  had  other  bits 
of  shady  work,  I  thought,  she  would  have  to  find 
another  agent.  She  had  written  "Poor  Antoine," 
of  her  former  messenger.  I  did  not  care  to  have 
it  become  "Poor  Sarto." 

It  would  be  an  even  world  of  work  and  pleasure 
were  it  not  for  women.  Aforetime,  when  I  was 
fashioning  a  button  to  surmount  the  Pope's  crown, 
I  was  tricked  of  a  month  by  a  nimble  glance. 
And  here  am  I  on  this  earth's  raw  edge,  because, 
again,  a  woman  has  but  grinned  upon  me.  Would 
to  God  that  Adam  had  been  more  wakeful  in  the 
night,  that,  so,  he  might  have  kept  his  rib.  There 
would  have  been  peace,  then,  upon  the  world. 

Chrysostom  voiced  our  general  wisdom. 
Woman,  he  said,  was  a  necessary  evil,  a  natural 
temptation,  a  desirable  calamity,  a  deadly  fas 
cination  and  a  painted  ill. 

But  Diane — I  do  confess  me  and  acknowledge 
it — Diane  has  most  marvelous  blue  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHAT    COMES    OF    DRINKING    FROM    TOO    MANY 
BOTTLES 

THIS  is  a  vile  chapter,  for  I  choose  to  tell 
what    happened   to    Michel    on    this   same 
night.     If  you  are  nice  you  may  skip  it.     You  '11 
not  miss  much,  for  I  am  not  in  it  except  at  the 
very  end. 

You  last  saw  Michel  sitting  in  the  kitchen  with 
the  cook.  She  had  given  him  a  plate  of  sugar 
tarts  and  had  poured  the  remnant  of  a  dozen  cups 
of  wine  together.  It  was  a  sop  that  was  mixed 
with  red  and  white,  but  Michel  has  the  gullet  of 
an  hostler  and  he  sipped  it  like  a  vintage.  Then 
she  raked  the  embers  of  the  fire  and  poked  them  to 
a  blaze.  Michel  made  room  upon  the  settle. 
"Honey  dear,"  he  said,  "come  rest  yourself!" 
She  was  not  a  Venus  in  the  daytime,  but  in  the 
glow  she  seemed  to  his  peasant's  eye  a  lovely 
vision. 

In  the  corner  of  the  hearth  there  stood  a  swab- 
stick.  On  the  shelf  was  a  row  of  plates  and 

196 


Drinking  from  too  Many  Bottles     197 

trenchers,  serving  both  as  memory  of  former  feasts 
and  as  promise  for  the  future.  The  roofing  beams 
were  weathered  black,  and  all  about  were  dripping 
pans,  skewers,  trivets,  pot-hangers,  and  other 
witch's  things,  ready  for  the  magic  of  the  caldron. 
Here  sat  Michel  and  his  fair  Hecate  by  his  side, 
and  he  was  full  of  comfort. 

Mark  how  the  fellow  brags  and  lies!  "My 
pet,"  he  said,  "I  was  once  a  sailor  on  the  seas,  and 
was  captured  by  Tunis  pirates.  Six  of  the 
villains  pitched  on  me  as  I  lay  asleep.  But  did  I 
yield*?  My  dear,  you  do  not  know  me.  When 
the  fight  was  done,  I  threw  five  of  their  bodies 
overboard.  The  captain  I  made  my  servant. 
Another  tart,  my  love!"  The  cook's  eyes  were 
filled  with  admiration  what  God  this  were  to  find 
alightment  here  in  Loches.  Michel  is  a  gaudy 
flash  and  quick  to  catch  a  woman's  eye. 

By  my  grateful  belly,  Sarto  loves  a  kitchen. 
Of  all  the  house,  it  is  the  heart  and  central 
warmth.  The  other  rooms  are  cold  suburbs 
round  about — windy  places  outside  the  walls. 
Here  in  the  kitchen  I  '11  plant  myself.  I  '11  sniff 
the  spices  and  look  upon  the  peppers  hung  up  to 
dry.  Devil  take  my  history!  You'll  wait  for 
my  plot.  I  '11  roost  here  upon  the  settle  and  take 


198  Luca  Sarto 

my  ease.  Outside  it  is  a  night  to  sway  a  gibbet, 
but  it  is  snug  upon  the  hearth.  Outside  it  is  a 
mad  world,  with  trees  pitching  in  the  wind,  and 
ships  in  danger,  but  the  kitchen  fire  burns  bright. 
Let  blasts  shake  the  hilltops,  and  wreckage  strew 
the  shore !  I  'm  as  peaceful  as  a  cabbage.  What 
do  I  care  for  Louis,  or  Tristan,  or  the  Pope?  My 
story  's  naught. 

But  it  was  not  for  me  to  sit  in  comfort.  Michel 
was  the  only  wooer  of  the  wench.  It  was  brawl 
that  was  to  come  my  way.  Above  the  bakeshop, 
as  I  've  told  you,  I  was  to  pass  the  night,  sore  hit. 
But  Michel  sat  in  the  kitchen  warmth,  with  his 
arm  about  the  cook. 

Once  an  hostler  put  in  his  head,  and  sulked  that 
his  wooing  was  done  by  proxy.  The  tarts  and 
remnant  of  the  wine  were  his  upon  a  usual  night. 
His  the  place  upon  the  settle.  When  he  turned 
his  back,  Michel  stuck  out  his  tongue.  It  was  a 
stroke  of  humor,  and  the  cook  was  set  in  giggles. 
Then  I  came  through  the  kitchen,  following  the 
fellow  who  had  shown  me  the  clasp. 

And  now  arose  a  clatter  in  the  yard,  men  run 
ning.  It  was  Maistro  and  his  whelps  starting 
after  me.  "Devil  take  the  pother,  my  love!" 
Michel  cried  out.  Yet  he  sat  not  down  at  once, 


Drinking  from  too  Many  Bottles      199 

although  the  wench  tucked  her  dresses  beneath  her 
snug,  as  invitation  that  he  pull  up  close.  He 
poked  his  nose  out  of  doors,  to  see  in  the  name  of 
Satan  where  the  din  had  gone. 

There  was  running  here  and  there,  and  shouts 
of  this  and  that.  Then  the  stir  was  hushed. 
Michel  went  back  to  Dame  Venus  of  the  kitchen, 
and,  as  appointed,  moored  alongside.  This  is  a 
servant's  brain.  Note  his  want  of  wit!  All  this 
rummage  of  the  stable  yard  had  come  beneath  his 
nose,  and  not  one  whiff  of  truth  had  he  sniffed  in. 
Such  a  nose  could  be  smeared  in  garlic  and  still 
the  mouth  below  would  murmur  of  the  breath  of 
roses. 

Shall  Sarto  keep  such  kitchen  company"?  Devil 
take  my  story !  I  stain  it  with  such  a  fool.  But 
is  not  writing  one's  adventures  like  eating  a  din 
ner?  One's  own  circumstance  whets  the  appe 
tite  and  is  pleasant  writing.  It  is  a  choice  rump 
upon  the  platter.  A  pretty  woman,  or  one  with 
spark  and  challenge,  is  a  sugar  pasty  for  a  dou 
ble  helping.  But  when  an  untoothsome  person 
comes  within  my  plot,  I  'm  loath  to  take  him  on 
my  spoon.  He  's  a  stew  that 's  burned.  And 
yet  for  a  proper  meal  all  foods  must  end  to 
gether.  The  lentils  must  be  gone  when  the  rump 


2OO  Luca  Sarto 

is  done.  The  black  bread  must  finish  with  the 
tarts.  In  brief,  one  must  eat  in  order,  and  the 
foods,  both  sour  and  sweet,  must  keep  an  even 
progress  and  sit  as  companions  on  the  knife. 

And  here  's  Michel,  like  a  cup  of  cold  stale  por 
ridge.  I  '11  gulp  him  quick,  and  eat  my  pasty 
later. 

It  was  a  good  half  hour  later  that  he  dropped 
the  wench's  hand.  He  jumped  up  and  jerked  her 
head  as  it  lay  upon  his  shoulder.  It  had  come  to 
him  at  last  that  somewhere  in  the  night  outside 
was  his  master,  and  that  the  men  had  run  off  to 
no  good  purpose.  It  was  a  startled  Venus  that  he 
left,  for  he  gave  no  word  of  explanation. 

He  rushed  headlong  through  the  dark.  All  the 
town  was  quiet.  As  for  me,  I  lay  as  I  was  left, 
and  there  was  no  wink  of  light  to  guide  his  steps. 

Now,  on  these  streets  there  was  another  man, 
and,  swack,  on  a  turn,  Michel  came  against  him. 
The  other  man,  thus  jolted,  at  first  was  hot  with 
anger,  and  he  was  near  to  stabbing  Michel.  But 
Michel,  thinking  the  man  was  myself,  cried  out 
my  name.  It  saved  his  life  but  put  things  in  a 
new  pickling. 

It  was  Tristan,  the  headsman  of  the  King. 
Here  he  was,  newcome  from  Paris,  a  day  ahead  of 


Drinking  from  too  Many  Bottles     201 

the  King.  Of  Tristan,  this:  He  was  some  ten 
years  rotted  from  his  full  maturity.  If  the  fleas 
had  stomachs  they  had  leaped  off  him. 

Tristan,  when  he  heard  my  name,  stayed  his 
arm,  for  what  should  Sarto  be  doing  here,  that  a 
running  man  should  seek  him  in  such  a  fright. 
Here  was  strange  matter  to  be  learned.  So  he 
bowed  low  to  Michel  and  craved  his  pardon.  He 
knew  a  place,  close  by,  where  wine  was  to  be  had. 
He  took  his  arm  and  led  him  off,  Michel  still 
breathing  hard,  but  wondering  what  golden  land 
it  was  where  encounter  could  so  end. 

Tristan  set  out  wine  enough  to  put  Michel  in  a 
blather.  Messer  he  called  Michel,  and  Monsieur, 
and  pried  his  tongue  with  flattery  until  he  had  him 
in  full  trot. 

Michel  did  not  know  many  of  my  plans,  but  he 
spoke  all  he  knew:  How  I  had  pricked  his  sides 
one  morning:  How  we  had  mounted  horse  while 
it  was  dawn:  How  the  Lady  Diane  was  con 
nected  with  these  things :  How,  finally,  some  one 
here  in  Loches  was  waiting  for  our  message. 

So  what  he  wanted,  Tristan  got.  Here  was 
new  trouble  brewing  for  the  King,  and  parcel  of 
it  were  Sarto  and  Diane.  It  was  late  when 
Tristan  left  Michel,  who  was  now  on  his  back 


2O2  Luca  Sarto 

beneath  the  table.  It  was  so  that  Circe  left  her 
swine. 

All  day  I  lay  at  the  Gray  Moon,  recovering 
from  my  jounce.  As  often  as  the  hour  came 
round,  the  cook's  shoes  came  slapping  up  the  steps. 
She  spooned  me  bitter  stuff  from  a  leather  cup. 
It  was  hard  to  swallow  with  my  gullet  on  the  level, 
yet  by  care  I  got  not  much  of  it  on  the  blanket. 
At  noon  she  brought  up  a  custard.  Ordinarily  I 
esteem  that  whey  is  not  man's  food,  yet  on  this 
occasion  I  found  it  of  so  pleasing  a  sweetness  that 
I  flung  by  the  spoon  and  drained  the  bowl.  Then 
I  wiped  my  mouth  on  the  edge  of  the  blanket  and 
lay  back  somewhat  mended  from  my  complaint. 

In  the  afternoon  I  sent  out  Michel  to  inquire  of 
the  smith  whether  he  could  fit  me  a  new  blade  to 
my  hilt.  By  good  luck  the  smith  owned  a  Spanish 
blade,  and  though  he  was  shrewd  in  his  price,  he 
made  good  work  of  it  and  returned  it  to  me  the 
following  morning.  Michel  brought  back  word 
that  King  Louis  and  his  Court  were  expected  late 
to-night. 

When  at  last  darkness  came,  I  saw  from  my 
window  that  the  royal  castle  of  Loches  was  lighted 
to  its  battlements.  It  was  not  lavishly  set  with 
tapers,  as  though  Louis  wished  radiance  for  his 


Drinking  from  too  Many  Bottles     203 

guests  within  and  a  show  of  cheer  for  the  beggars 
without.  But  at  its  narrow  windows,  thin  and 
haggard  lights  stood  like  prisoners  in  the  gray  of 
the  inner  walls,  looking  upon  the  free  air.  But 
from  the  dungeon  tower  no  lights  showed,  for 
hope  there  was  snuffed  and  dead. 

And  all  evening  I  watched  the  castle,  wonder 
ing  which  candle  lighted  Mademoiselle  to  bed. 


A 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    POOL    OF     FRANCE 

ND  now  I  have  written  how  a.  goldsmith 
came  from  Rome,  how  he  met  a  lady  and  fell 
somewhat  a  victim  to  the  glance  of  her  blue  eyes, 
how  he  went  on  journey  for  her,  and  now  waits  in 
Loches  hot  with  impatience  for  her  coming. 

Of  the  Lady  Diane  again:  And  my  story  runs 
back  to  that  first  night  in  Paris  when  I  had  shel 
tered  her  upon  my  hearth. 

Busy  days  are  long.  Have  you  forgotten  so 
soon  how  Mademoiselle  departed  from  me  at  the 
Palais  Saint  Louis,  and  how  a  king's  archer  fol 
lowed  in  the  dark?  That  night  Mademoiselle 
dropped  a  stone  in  the  still  pool  of  France  from 
which  the  waves  went  to  the  four  margins. 
We  '11  watch  her  as  she  drops  it,  and  later  we 
shall  see  the  waves  make  off. 

John  of  Bourbon  set  late  in  Paris,  playing  at 
chess.  Opposite  was  Sir  Gilles,  pulling  at  his 
hangnails  with  his  teeth,  as  he  waited  for  his  turn. 
Bourbon  put  his  slim  white  fingers  on  the  roc, 
then  squinted  close  upon  the  board.  "I  check 

204 


The  Pool  of  France  205 

your  rey,"  he  said.  Gilles's  claw  hung  above 
like  a  hawk  before  it  strikes.  "Not  so,  my  lord. 
I  meet  it  with  a  chivaler."  He  went  back  to  his 
feast  upon  his  fingers. 

Bourbon  and  Gilles  both  deserve  a  word.  Of 
Bourbon  first.  He  was  John,  the  second  of  the 
name,  and  by  hereditary  right  he  held  as  appanage 
broad  lands  to  the  south  of  Paris,  of  which  the 
central  province  was  the  Bourbonnais.  Friend  of 
the  King,  foe  of  the  King,  as  occasion  served.  He 
had  fought  the  old  king,  Charles,  in  the  uprising 
known  as  the  Praguerie,  now  some  thirty  years 
gone.  Also  he  had  fought  the  old  king's  son,  this 
present  Louis,  in  the  war  of  the  Common  Weal. 
But.  he  had  schemed  with  him  too,  cheek  to  cheek, 
when  advantage  lay  that  way.  They  were  then 
dear  cousins  to  each  other,  with  interchange  of 
gifts  upon  a  holiday.  When  snug  at  home, 
Bourbon  lived  at  Orleans  or  at  Bourges 
or  perhaps  at  Moulins,  for  he  had  at  all  these 
places,  castles  of  uncommon  strength,  as  had  been 
tested  by  force  of  arms.  Yet  now  he  sits  in  Paris. 
He  thinks  it  safer  in  these  dizzy  times  to  keep  a 
glance  on  Louis.  As  for  his  age,  it  was  hard  on 
seventy,  for  his  white  hair  hung  shaggy  on  his 
head  and  chin. 


206  Luca  Sarto 

Of  Gilles  next.  He  was  a  fox,  whom  nature 
had  fashioned  outwardly  as  a  man.  For  thirty 
years  he  has  served  Philip  of  Burgundy  and  his 
son  Charles,  and  he  is  now  upon  that  business. 
No  matter  what  the  pretext  that  he  gives  for  be 
ing  here  in  Paris,  you  may  be  sure  to  what  end  he 
works.  You  '11  observe  how  his  long  nose  comes 
forward  in  the  taper's  light !  The  nostrils  quiver 
like  those  of  an  animal  that  lies  in  wait. 

And  Mademoiselle  came  from  the  night  and 
stood  beside  John  of  Bourbon's  chair. 

"Duke  John,"  she  said,  and  waited  below  the 
sconce,  so  that  the  light  fell  on  her  face. 

"Ha,  chick,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  and  he  held 
out  both  his  hands  to  her,  "what  brings  you  here 
at  such  an  hour  of  night*?" 

"My  lord," — but  her  look  fell  on  Gilles,  who 
had  propped  his  upper  teeth  against  his  thumb,  and 
sat  with  mouth  open  and  drooping  eyes,  impatient 
at  the  delay.  He  had  the  better  of  the  Duke  by 
two  pouns  and  a  chivaler,  and  so  he  scowled  at 
the  interruption. 

Bourbon  caught  Mademoiselle's  glance. 
"Gilles,"  he  said,  and  wagged  his  thumb  across 
his  shoulder.  Gilles  needed  but  the  hint.  He 
went  off  softly,  with  his  skirts  closely  about  him. 


The  Pool  of  France  207 

Then  Mademoiselle  spoke  simply  as  befits  a 
weighty  message.  "Edward  reigns  in  England." 

"By  Grace  of  God,"  Bourbon  cried,  and  came 
upon  his  feet,  scattering  the  chess  men. 

"Duke  John,"  she  asked,  "is  it  well  for  us?" 

"It  is  well,  my  child." 

"And  on  the  road — it  was  at  Rouen  where  we 
passed  the  night — a  man  came  to  meet  us  from 
Duke  Francis  of  Brittany.  To  him  also  I  gave 
the  message.  Is  it  well,  my  lord*?" 

"Ay,  it  is."  Then  he  stood  pondering,  pulling 
his  white  beard  through  his  fingers. 

"What  comes  of  this,  Duke  John*?"  she  asked. 

"Some  say,"  he  answered,  "that  we  verge 
toward  another  Common  Weal."  On  a  sudden  he 
cried  out.  "Gilles,  Gilles  !" 

Gilles  came  at  a  trot,  lifting  his  eyebrows  when 
he  saw  how  the  chess  board  was  overturned. 
"Gilles!"  Duke  John  cried  out.  "Here's  news. 
Edward  reigns  in  England." 

"So*?"  Gilles  answered.  "Then,  by  the  grace 
of  heaven,  we  may  leave  these  silly  puppets  where 
they  lie  and  consult  on  worthier  things." 

Duke  John  laid  his  open  palm  upon  the  table. 
"It 's  so  we  stand,"  he  said.  "Burgundy,  me- 
thinks,  is  this  long  thin  finger  in  the  middle. 


208  Luca  Sarto 

Bourbon  is  the  finger  next  to  it.  Brittany  is  the 
other  side.  Aragon  is  the  little  finger."  He 
wiggled  each  in  turn.  "Of  these  we  're  sure. 
But  the  thumb — ha,  Sir  Gilles — the  thumb  is 
Guienne.  See  how  it  lies  apart  from  us!  If  we 
could  but  fold  it  in  our  palm.  So!  And  bring 
these  fingers  tight  against  it — then,  'fore  God,  we 
could  strike  a  blow  for  France." 

Bourbon  lifted  his  fist  at  arm's  length  above 
him,  and  struck  it  against  the  table.  "It 's  so 
we  'd  strike." 

It  was  thus  that  Mademoiselle  dropped  a  stone 
into  the  pool  of  France.  Now  we  shall  see  the 
waves  go  circling  off. 

The  first  wave — without  Diane's  intention- 
splashed  upon  Louis.  He  sat  sulking,  this  same 
night,  on  a  map  of  France,  with  fingers  chiefly  on 
the  parts  that  lie  to  the  north  and  east.  Now  a 
hunger  had  come  on  him  as  he  worked,  and  to  ease 
it  he  laid  out  before  him  divers  pasties.  These  he 
was  breaking  in  his  fingers  and  was  thrusting  them 
in  his  mouth,  sprinkling  his  map  with  crumbs. 

Louis  put  his  thumb  on  Ghent.  "It 's  here," 
he  mused,  "that  Burgundy  sits — and  his  precious 
daughter  Marie,  for  whom  my  brother  Charles  is 


The  Pool  of  France  209 

sighing.  Love,  I  'm  told,  comes  hottest  in  the 
spring.  Therefore,  until  the  season's  past,  I  '11 
bait  the  hook  with  a  Spanish  flirtation.  I  must 
provide  him  this  amusement,  for  the  Burgundian 
marriage  would  wreck  me.  If  I  can  hold  him  a 
bachelor  until  the  autumn,  the  season  will  help  to 
cool  him." 

He  finished  his  thoughts,  then  brushed  off  the 
crumbs  vindictively  as  though  they  were  the 
armies  of  Burgundy.  He  blew  them  beyond  the 
Rhine,  horse  and  foot. 

To  him,  as  he  was  thus  employed,  there  came 
the  archer  who  had  followed  after  Mademoiselle. 
Louis  brayed  when  he  saw  him.  "Patch,"  he 
cried,  "you  break  up  my  meditation."  But  he 
smiled  when  he  saw  how  the  fellow  was  smirched. 
"There  's  mud  on  you.  It  speaks  of  haste,"  he 
said. 

"Mademoiselle  Diane  has  returned  to  Paris." 

"Well,  Louis  cares  not.  He  's  not  a  lover  of 
the  lady.  It 's  Oliver  will  fee  you  for  the  news." 

"And  she  passed  an  hour  with  this  new  Italian, 
Luca  Sarto." 

"Still  Louis  cares  not.  Her  conduct  is  for  her 
priest." 


2io  Luca  Sarto 

"Then,  sire,  she  went  to  John  of  Bourbon." 

"Ha,  is  it  so*?"  Louis  squinted  and  made  a 
mouth.  "When  was  this*?  To-night4?" 

"It 's  but  a  half  hour  since." 

"And  then?" 

"Nothing,  sire." 

Louis's  palm  nursed  his  cheek,  then  his  head 
went  down  in  thought.  His  eyes  became  narrow 
slits,  like  the  iris  of  a  cat's  eye  when  it  comes  into 
the  light.  Louis  was  himself  coming  into  the 
light.  He  waved  the  archer  off,  then  chewed  his 
upper  lip.  "I  may  be  starting  on  a  shadow,"  he 
muttered.  He  smoothed  the  map  and  stared  on  it. 
"Mademoiselle  goes  to  Boulogne.  So  I  am  in 
formed.  It 's  but  a  finger  length  across  the  chan 
nel.  Burgundy's  wife  is  English,  sister  of  this 
ambitious  Edward.  But  Sarto  is  a  Roman.  And 
last  comes  Bourbon."  He  hummed  a  broken 
song,  as  measure  to  his  thoughts. 

He  scowled  and  brooded  on  these  things,  then 
fell  to  whining  on  another  tune:  How  his  sleep 
was  broken :  How  he  rose  dizzy  in  the  morning. 
"By  the  Holy  Blood,"  was  how  he  ended,  "if  the 
Madonna  of  Saint  Ours  would  come  to  life  and 
heal  me,  I  'd  whip  Bourbon  and  Burgundy,  both 
of  them,  out  of  France." 


The  Pool  of  France  211 

He  sneezed,  but  staunched  himself  upon  his 
sleeve.  The  water  splashed  from  the  pool  of 
France  must  have  wet  his  feet. 

Let 's  leave  him  here,  sniffling  on  his  complaints, 
and  see  how  the  other  waves  came  to  shore ! 

I  have  told  you  that  the  horseman  who  kissed 
Diane's  fingers  on  'the  landing  of  Jocelyn's  inn  at 
Rouen,  went  riding  to  the  west.  He  sweated  all 
the  way  to  Rennes.  Mountain  and  lowland,  day 
and  night,  and  here  was  Brittany  at  last. 
Rennes  is  the  capital,  and  it  measures  to  the  dig 
nity  of  the  dukedom.  The  horseman  arrived  in 
the  morning,  and  his  horse  drooped  in  the  court 
yard.  "What  ho !"  the  man  called  out.  "Where 
shall  I  find  my  Lord  Francis  of  Brittany*?" 

Francis  of  Brittany  had  risen  for  the  mass,  and 
now  he  came  forth  from  sacrament.  There  was  a 
blare  of  gay  voices  in  his  company,  for  it  was  to 
be  a  day  of  hunting.  "My  lord,"  cried  one  of 
them,  as  they  came  down  the  steps,  "here  is  a  man 
who  bears  a  message  for  you." 

"From  where*?" 

"From  England,  so  he  says." 

"So!     Move  off  a  bit!     I '11  see  him  here." 

In  this  slight  privacy  the  messenger  gave  his 
news. 


212  Luca  Sarto 

Francis  tossed  his  cap.  Then  he  sobered. 
"To  stall !"  he  called.  "The  hunt  has  been 
broken  up.  Yet  I  '11  give  you  sport  to-morrow. 
There  is  an  old  gray  fox  in  Paris  we  '11  run  to  hole. 
Hear  my  news,  gentlemen !  Edward  has  come  to 
the  English  throne.  It  is  the  signal  for  revolt  in 
France."  Whereat  he  rode  by  himself  out  of  the 
clamor. 

He  sat  with  his  counselors  in  a  smudge  of  talk. 
It  was  two  hours  at  the  least,  but  you  will  hear 
only  the  end  of  it.  "Sire,"  said  one  in  conclusion, 
"we  '11  front  ourselves  with  Charles  of  Guienne. 
It  will  win  the  opinions  of  all  France  if  our  cause 
is  topped  by  the  brother  of  the  King."  Many 
words  before  !  These  are  enough. 

Bordeaux  is  the  capital  of  Guienne.  It  is  off  a 
bit,  but  Sir  Gilles  has  already  started,  primed  for 
argument.  This  had  been  compacted  between 
him  and  Bourbon  before  the  dawn.  Gilles  spoke 
not  only  for  his  master,  Charles  of  Burgundy,  but 
for  Bourbon  as  well :  And  now  for  Brittany  also. 

This  Charles  of  Guienne,  whose  name  and  help 
Burgundy,  Bourbon,  and  Brittany  now  sought,  was 
a  smallish  youth  who  had  a  pipe  by  way  of  throat, 
suited  rather  to  canzonet  than  the  call  of  battle. 
It  was  in  moonlight  and  at  a  lady's  window  that 


The  Pool  of  France  213 

it  was  pitched  the  best.  His  face  was  white,  and 
his  chin  would  have  still  been  smooth  if  the  razor 
had  idled  for  a  week.  He  was  also  thin  of  chest 
and  shank.  Nature,  some  twenty  years  since  in 
the  making  of  him,  had  cheated  him  of  the 
rougher  fibers.  Had  she  been  setting  up  a 
scholard,  she  could  not  have  pinched  him  more. 
Yet  mark  his  rank!  Charles,  Duke  of  Berry, 
Count  of  Angouleme,  sometime  Duke  of  Nor 
mandy — while  the  King's  favor  lasted — and  now, 
as  a  sop  from  this  same  king,  he  is  Duke  of 
Guienne.  Lastly,  this  Charles  is  a  brother  of  the 
King — next  in  line  to  be  king  himself,  until  the 
Dauphin  had  been  born.  He  sulked  at  the  Te 
Dcuni  in  Notre  Dame  when  the  royal  infant  was 
baptized.  Also,  if  his  own  desire  be  the  parent 
of  the  future,  Charles  is  to  be  the  husband  of 
Marie  of  Burgundy.  Thus  lay  his  intent.  It 
was  not  so  much  to  take  the  lady  to  wife,  as  that 
he  might  ally  himself  with  the  house  of  Bur 
gundy.  Guienne  and  Burgundy,  so  conjoined,  he 
thought,  could  shake  the  universe.  Yet  the 
jiggling  of  the  planets  would  have  been  slight,  if 
Burgundy  had  laid  off  the  job. 

Sir  Gilles  came  from  Paris  and,  stained  as  he 
was,  he  sought  the  palace. 


214  Luca  Sarto 

"Sire,"  he  blurted  to  Charles  of  Guienne  when 
he  stood  before  him.  "Sire,  this  north  wind 
brings  good  news.  Your  friends  are  agreed  to 
set  you  on  the  throne  of  France.  We  '11  brush 
this  spider  off."  For  so  he  had  fashioned  his 
message. 

But  Charles  held  out,  and  whined  that  the 
times  were  disjointed  for  the  undertaking.  For 
this  lordling  was  hot  and  cold,  feverish  in  prepara 
tion,  yet  too  chilly  to  draw  the  sword.  Sir  Gilles 
met  him  with  large  phrases.  "The  sun,  the 
moon,  the  stars  were  dimmed  for  a  proper 
sovereign,"  and  other  celestial  foolery.  Charles 
brightened  on  the  words  and  stroked  his  silk  mus 
tache,  but  withheld  consent. 

Sir  Gilles  took  a  turn  around  the  room,  tapping 
his  cane  upon  the  stones.  "My  lord,"  he  said, 
"you  force  me  to  play  my  ace."  He  paused,  and 
then,  "My  Lord  Duke  of  Burgundy's  daughter, 
the  Princess  Marie,  is  now  come  to  the  age  of 
marriage." 

"Ha,  so*?"  This  from  Guienne,  but  the  fire 
showed  at  last  in  the  smudge. 

"It 's  so,  indeed,"  said  Gilles,  "and  the  Duke 
looks  all  about  for  a  proper  husband  for  his 
daughter." 


The  Pool  of  France  215 

Guienne  cocked  his  ear  upon  the  words.  Gilles 
continued.  "But  the  Lady  Marie  is  nice.  She  '11 
not  have  herself  set  up  for  highest  bidding.  Ah 
me,  youth  goes  to  youth." 

"Ay,  it  does,"  Guienne  answered.  He  sighed 
and  rolled  his  eyes  up  ceilingward. 

It  was  Gilles's  turn  again.  "My  lord,"  he 
said,  "I  '11  not  mince  it.  The  Princess  shows  some 
favor  to  yourself.  Of  course,  it 's  not  beyond 
what  is  proper  to  a  maiden." 

In  such  fashion  did  Gilles  set  himself  to  fan 
the  blaze. 

It  was  in  the  dawn  that  Charles  of  Guienne 
gave  his  consent  to  rise  against  the  King.  Yet 
chiefly  his  thoughts  ran  how  by  this  he  might  take 
Marie  to  wife. 

Sir  Gilles  cooled  himself  outside,  for  it  had  been 
hot  work  and  he  had  wracked  himself  for  compli 
ment  and  trope.  There  was  a  pale  light  of  day 
upon  the  city,  but  a  scud  of  cloud  lay  along  the 
horizon.  Gilles  saw  it  and  smiled.  "The  wind 
from  the  north,"  he  muttered,  "fetches  us  a 
storm." 

And  did  a  wave  cross  the  pool  to  Burgundy"? 
You  know  not  the  man,  to  think  he  had  been  sleep 
ing.  These  four  days  he  had  been  dropping 


216  Luca  Sarto 

pebbles  of  his  own,  wherefrom  the  ripples  by  now 
swept  in  a  wide  circumference.  "Charles,  Duke 
of  Burgundy,  of  Brabant,  of  Limburg,  and  of 
Luxemburg;  Count  of  Flanders,  of  Artois,  of 
Burgundy,  of  Hainault,  of  Holland,  of  Zeeland, 
and  of  Namur;  Marquis  of  the  Holy  Empire; 
Lord  of  Friesland,  of  Malines.  .  .  ."  So  had  he 
been  proclaimed  when  Philip,  the  old  Duke.  died. 

But  a  wave  from  Diane's  stone  did  wash  south 
until  it  lapped  the  Pyrenees.  Sir  Gilles  was  not 
needed  there,  for  Aragon  was  apt  for  revolt, 
fretted  by  an  old  discontent. 

So  it  was  that  in  May  of  the  year  fourteen 
hundred  and  seventy-one,  the  pool  of  France  was 
stirred.  To  change  the  figure,  the  thumb  at  last 
lay  curled  inside  the  fingers  to  strike  a  blow  at 
Louis. 

Now  mark  what  happened  further ! 

Charles  of  Guienne  gave  his  consent  at  dawn. 
On  the  night  that  followed  a  beacon  flared  from 
the  roof  of  the  Cathedral  of  Rennes.  The  fire  lay 
in  the  gutter  to  the  east  and  north,  and  three  men 
brought  the  faggots  up  the  stairs  to  feed  it. 

Such  country  folk  near  by  as  watered  their 
cattle  after  dark  saw  the  flame  and  afterwards 
they  made  of  it  a  family  riddle  around  the  candle. 


The  Pool  of  France  217 

But  those  who  lived  farther  off  on  the  road  to 
Fougeres  and  on  the  highlands  beyond,  saw  it  also 
and  thought  it  to  be  a  planet  hanging  on  Leo's  tail. 
These  sucked  astrology  from  it  and  wondered 
what  is  boded.  Perhaps,  they  thought,  these 
lights  were  somehow  compounded  with  the  comet 
in  the  east. 

And  other  flames  followed  across  the  hills 
from  top  to  top,  as  though  the  older  gods  were  once 
more  being  worshiped  in  the  night.  Before  the 
dawn  set  in,  the  flaming  signal  had  gone  beyond 
Alenqon  so  that  the  breakfast  curds  as  far  to 
the  east  as  Mortagne  had  rumor  and  gossip  for 
their  sauce. 

And  all  this  night  Duke  Charles  of  Guienne 
chewed  at  his  lips  and  twitched  his  toes  in  ner 
vousness,  but  feared  to  sleep.  Louis's  face,  he 
thought,  would  have  appeared  to  him  through  the 
curtains  of  his  bed.  Gilles's  eye  was  on  him,  for 
the  fox  sat  by  lest  he  repent  of  his  decision.  In 
the  morning  Charles  soused  the  redness  from  his 
eyes  and  swore  brave  oaths  upon  his  sword. 
Gilles  saw  him  at  it,  and  grinned  and  went  his 
ways. 

And  from  the  court  of  Aragon  thirty  men  on 
horseback  took  out  the  word,  and  blew  it  forth 


218  Luca  Sarto 

upon  their  shouts  until  the  valleys  woke  and 
prattled  of  it.  Harness  was  buffed  that  day,  and 
pikes  were  tipped. 

But  Charles  of  Burgundy  foamed  all  night,  and 
chattered  of  arms  and  war.  In  the  morning  he 
sent  extra  posts  to  Lille  and  Louvain  and  as  far 
south  as  Arras. 

And  when,  think  you,  was  this  rummage — this 
smudge  of  fire  and  outcry — blown  to  Louis'? 

From  Evreux,  when  darkness  was  still  thick,  a 
horseman  of  King  Louis  went  riding  to  the  east. 
Such  was  the  murk  and  such  was  his  speed  that 
you  would  have  said  he  was  not  of  God's  creation, 
but  was  got  by  the  devil  out  of  darkness.  Speed, 
thou  galloping  toe  of  Satan!  The  Majesty  of 
France  has  need  of  the  word  you  bring. 

These  fires  were  of  a  Sunday  night.  It  was 
Monday  in  the  dawn  that  the  King's  horseman 
rode  from  itvreux.  It  was  Monday  in  the  dusk 
of  evening  that  the  horseman  splashed  in  the  mud 
of  Paris.  The  towers  of  the  palace  hung  over 
him.  "By  the  blood  of  Christ,"  he  bawled,  "lead 
me  to  the  King." 

But  they  mocked  him  for  his  sweat.  Louis 
was  already  two  days  on  the  road  to  Loches. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MAGGOTS    OF    THE    BRAIN 

THERE  are  many  maggots  of  the  brain,  but 
chief  of  them  are  fear  and  hate. 

I  choose  now  to  write  of  Louis's  journey  to 
Loches.  Only  a  brief  account  is  needed.  We 
shall  see  royalty  jouncing  on  a  mule. 

Louis  was  in  distemper  all  the  way,  whining  first 
on  his  disease,  then  grumbling  against  his  cousin 
Charles  of  Burgundy,  who,  "by  Holy  Mary,"  so 
he  said,  "fretted  him  worse  than  ever  haircloth  did 
a  saint." 

Many  of  his  lords  and  men  went  with  him,  and 
rode  mules  also.  Nearest  to  the  King  always  was 
Olivier  le  Daim,  with  a  grin  and  whisper  between 
them.  Olivier  does  not  come  within  the  scope  of 
my  book,  yet  he  so  sits  in  the  spotted  sunlight  of 
royalty  that  he  merits  a  word.  He  was  the 
King's  barber,  a  fellow  who  being  at  first  privy  to 
his  beard,  had  come  at  last  to  be  privy  to  his  coun 
sels.  He  bore  before  him  on  his  mule  the  strops 

and  razors  of  his  craft,  and  also  a  lesser  case  for 

219 


22O  Luca  Sarto 

the  lozenges  and  oils  he  ministered  to  the  King 
when  his  illness  came  on  him — a  fellow  with  a 
soapy  smell  upon  his  fingers.  When  the  time 
comes  round  for  spooning  out  his  nostrums,  Olivier 
solemnly  drops  his  jaw.  "Sire,"  he  says,  "my 
wisdom  tells  me  that  you  may  have  the  stone.  If 
so,  here 's  lotion  to  allay  it."  Or  again:  "Your 
Majesty  must  guard  yourself  against  the  heat. 
Here  are  red  juniper  berries — graines  de  gcnievres 
rouges — to  mend  you."  Or  the  ring  of  Saint  Zan- 
obius  was  offered,  and  the  blood  of  Cape  Verde 
turtles.  Thus,  the  farce. 

As  for  the  rest  of  the  traveling  company,  they 
sorted  as  they  might — fifty  of  them  at  least,  with 
many  servants  in  the  dust  behind. 

They  were  beyond  Versailles,  when  it  was  seen 
that  Duke  John  of  Bourbon  was  not  in  his  accus 
tomed  place,  which  was  off  the  rump  of  Louis's 
mule.  Louis  himself  sobered  when  he  noticed 
this,  but  waved  off  the  thought.  "Duke  John," 
he  said,  "sent  word  that  he  was  of  a  sudden  ill. 
He  '11  join  us  at  Loches."  Louis  said  this  twice, 
so  that  those  near  him  might  hear.  But  he  took 
to  whispering  with  Olivier,  with  his  hand  before 
his  mouth. 

They  lay  at  Chartres  in  accommodation  near  the 


Maggots  of  the  Brain  221 

Cathedral.  It  was  a  common  inn,  but  swept 
clean  forward  of  the  kitchen  door.  The  rooms 
and  passages  were  sprinkled  with  scent  as 
prevention  against  the  plague  for  they  say  it  first 
lodges  in  the  nose.  Sweet  scent  cast  in  sinks  and 
privies  wards  off  the  plague  better  than  the  kill 
ing  of  a  hundred  Jews. 

All  evening  Louis  praised  the  liquor  and  made 
a  crony  of  the  tapster  but  emptied  his  pot  half 
tasted  when  the  fellow's  back  was  turned. 

"My  dear  gossip,"  said  the  King,  "have  you 
not  a  bit  of  the  holy  cross  in  the  cathedral  here*?" 

"Ay,  sire,  we  have." 

Louis  fumbled  at  his  poke  and  pinched  out 
three  copper  coins.  These  he  weighed  in  his 
palm,  but  tossed  back  two  of  them.  "Take  this, 
my  friend,"  he  said.  "Commend  me  to  the 
priests.  Bid  them  pray  for  me."  Then  he 
added:  "Your  wine  is  of  a  sunny  vintage.  My 
cup  is  thirsty." 

At  bedtime  he  put  his  nose  at  the  door  for  air. 
A  clear  wind  blew  off  the  hills.  "Olivier!"  he 
called,  and  his  face  clouded.  "See !  There  's  a 
comet  in  the  sky." 

But  Olivier  had  comfort.  "Vir  sapiens — a 
wise  man,"  he  said,  "is  master  of  the  stars." 


222  Luc  a  Sarto 

Then  as  Louis  still  fretted,  he  added  shrewdly : 
"Look,  sire!  The  comet  hangs  in  the  east.  It 
points  disaster  to  Burgundy." 

Louis  slammed  the  door  and  shuffled  off  to  bed. 

The  Lady  Diane  waited  on  the  Queen  that  night 
and  handed  her  the  sleeping  robe.  And  it  seems 
that  the  Queen  was  much  distressed.  She  wrung 
her  hands  when  Diane  wished  her  good  night. 
"Mistress  Diane,"  she  said,  "bad  times.  The 
King  fears  them."  And  Diane,  knowing  about 
the  fires  on  the  Norman  hills  and  what  they  boded, 
held  her  peace.  But  the  Queen's  kiss  burned  her 
cheek.  While  the  redness  was  still  upon  her  face, 
the  Queen  held  her  by  the  wrist  and  gazed  at  her. 
At  this  there  was  much  fear  in  Diane,  and  coming 
down  from  the  Queen's  apartments  she  steadied 
herself  against  the  rail. 

It  was  at  Chartres,  too,  that  there  came  to  the 
King  a  legate  from  the  Pope.  And  to  one  who 
peeped  upon  the  document  over  the  King's 
hunched  back  there  would  have  been  seen  in  flour 
ished  letters  the  name  of  Luca  Sarto — an  ominous 
message,  for  the  Pope  had  been  moved  by  the  Or- 
sini  to  summon  Sarto  home  for  punishment.  The 
Orsini,  it  appeared,  distrusted  Maistro's  accomp 
lishment.  They  were  making  sureness  doubly  so. 


Maggots  of  the  Brain  223 

Now  Louis  would  by  preference  have  offended 
one  of  his  lead  saints  rather  than  the  Pope.  In 
consequence,  he  feigned  to  be  aghast  at  Sarto's 
misdemeanors  and  dismissed  the  legate  with  the 
assurance  that  Luca  Sarto  would  be  arrested  and 
sent  to  Rome. 

Then  he  pondered  by  himself.  It  could  be 
done  by  indirection.  First  Sarto  should  be  flat 
tered — as  a  device  for  future  favors  with  Rovere, 
if  Pope  Paul  died  and  Rovere  succeeded  him  in 
the  office.  Yet  Paul's  letter  assured  Louis  of  his 
health  and  strength.  It  was  this  lie  that  turned 
Louis  to  his  decision,  for  he  thought  it  better  to 
gain  a  present  favor  than  to  play  upon  the  future. 
All  of  which  Pope  Paul  knew  when  he  wrote,  for 
he  lied,  being  at  the  time  in  a  sore  state  and  near 
his  end. 

Sarto's  arrest  might  be  worked  by  stealth ;  might 
be  made  in  Italy  even,  where,  with  the  trappings 
of  pretended  honor,  he  could  be  sent  on  embassage, 
and  so  betrayed,  and  no  King's  hand  showing. 
And  so  events  might  proceed  so  that  all  would  be 
accomplished  and  good-will  gained  on  both  sides. 
And  this  would  be  needful,  for  who  could  know 
how  the  papal  coin  might  fall?  Would  it  not  in 
duce  quiet  sleep  within  the  royal  nightcap,  if 


224  Luca  Sarto 

on   both    sides    the   tossed-up   coin   were   heads  ? 

But  Louis  planned  too  soon.  It  was  a  foolish 
hunter  who  sold  the  bear-skin  before  he  had  killed 
the  bear. 

Then  Louis  concluded  his  reply.  "And  might 
the  saints,"  so  ran  the  letter,  "protect  his  holiness 
from  the  guile  of  his  enemies,  and  spare  him  long 
for  the  glory  of  Christendom."  To  which  was 
set  the  crabbed  signature  of  Louis  of  Valois. 

And,  mark  you,  all  of  these  schemes  against  me 
are  to  be  in  his  head  when  I  shall  see  him  next. 
Yet,  when  that  time  comes,  he  '11  smirk  on  me,  and 
I  '11  know  naught  of  the  deviltry  inside  him. 
Had  I  passed  a  month  with  Father  Paul,  and  sat 
by  him  as  he  pruned  his  hedges,  I  had  known 
better  the  way  of  spiders.  "They  spin  in  the 
dark,"  he  said,  "and  lay  their  snares  across  the 
thoroughfares  of  night." 

Of  meaner  matters,  this — which  also  concerns 
Sarto.  You  will  recall  the  servant  woman, 
Jeanne,  who  put  her  waxy  ear  to  Diane's  door, 
when  she  and  Sarto  planned  the  trip  to  Melun. 
For  two  days  she  had  been  itching  with  the  secret. 
And  now  at  last — for  she  traveled  with  the  Court 
as  a  tire  woman — she  found  occasion  to  limp  to 
Louis.  He  had  just  dismissed  the  papal  legate. 


Maggots  of  the  Brain  22$ 

Jeanne  stood  in  the  hallway,  blowing  with  ex 
citement.  Louis  frowned  when  she  entered,  pull 
ing  his  legs  inside  the  covers,  for  he  still  lay  a-bed. 
She  blurted  her  secret  to  him,  how  Sarto  had  gone 
off  on  Diane's  bidding,  and  also  how  Oliver  de 
Bourges  was  stirred  when  he  heard  of  it.  But  she 
told  the  story  with  more  detail,  as  a  king's  gold 
would  weigh  more  heavily  in  the  palm.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway,  twisting  her  lean  fingers  in 
her  skirt. 

You  may  be  sure  that  Louis's  love  for  Sarto  and 
Diane  did  not  increase  when  he  learned  the  things 
they  had  practiced  beneath  his  nose.  Yet  he  was 
in  no  suspicion  that  in  this  secret  commerce  there 
was  a  larger  danger  to  himself.  He  knew  nothing 
as  yet  of  the  flames  of  Normandy.  For  wry 
winds  upon  the  Channel  held  back  the  news  from 
England.  However,  in  the  actions  of  Mademoi 
selle  there  was  always  food  for  thought.  There 
had  been  already  a  stew  in  the  King's  brain  that 
morning.  Perhaps  Jeanne  added  a  pinch  of  pep 
per  to  it. 

After  Jeanne  was  gone,  Olivier  entered  with  a 
fresh-aired  shift.  The  King  muttered.  "Oli 
vier,  there 's  trouble  breeding  in  our  realm." 
Then  when  the  shift  was  on  him:  "If  my 


226  Luca  Sarto 

brother  Charles  be  concerned,  I  '11  take  him  by 
the  gizzard  and  twist  him  until  he  bawls  for 
peace."  Louis  bit  his  nails  and  spat  them  on  the 
floor.  Then,  when  the  water  was  hot,  he  held  his 
cheek  sidewise  to  be  soaped  and  scraped. 

It  was  at  night  as  they  neared  Vendome  that 
Louis  first  saw  a  smudge  of  light  in  the  west — the 
fires,  maybe,  that  burned  above  Le  Gault.  It  was 
a  dim  blur,  as  though  nature,  having  squandered 
her  pigments  in  the  sunset,  grudged  now  a  further 
cost.  A  pale  light  hung  above  the  trees.  Louis, 
at  the  sight  of  it,  turned  sidewise  on  his  mule  until 
the  beast  stopped  and  fell  to  nibbling  at  the  grass. 
Olivier  was  close,  as  usual.  "Sire,"  he  said,  "the 
hills  to-night  are  strangely  candled." 

Louis  turned  on  him.  "Do  you  think?—  '  he 
whined,  but  broke  off.  Then  he  spoke  in  Olivier's 
ear,  but  aloud  so  that  all  heard.  "It 's  likely  that 
Burgundy  sets  the  taper.  We  '11  singe  his  beard 
with  it,  before  it  burns  to  socket."  Then  he  sat 
with  his  eyes  intent  upon  the  light.  "Pest,"  he 
.said.  "I  've  taken  a  grievous  time  for  pilgrim 
age.  Blessed  Mary,  be  gracious  to  thy  servant 
and  show  thy  mercy  !"  After  which  he  kicked  his 
mule  and  hurried  on — his  cap  spread  before  him 
on  the  horn  of  the  saddle,  with  its  saints  to  com- 


Mayyots  of  the  Brain  227 

fort  him.  And  the  light  burned  an  hour  upon 
the  hills  and  went  out. 

They  stopped  for  the  night  at  Vendome.  After 
dinner  Louis  found  Diane  alone.  "Mademoi 
selle,"  he  said,  "a  word  with  you."  He  took  her 
ringers  and  bent  his  stiff  old  back  until  he  kissed 
them.  "Diane,"  he  said,  "Oliver  de  Bourges  was 
killed  in  Paris  the  night  before  we  left.  Has  the 
rumor  reached  you"?  " 

"Ay,  sire,  it  has." 

"On  the  steps  of  the  Palais  Saint  Louis,"  he 
added.  Louis  squinted  at  her  closely.  "Sarto, 
it  's  said,  was  missing  in  the  morning." 

Diane  shivered  but  kept  silent.  The  King  took 
her  by  the  wrist.  "This  Italian  killed  Oliver." 

"Sire,"  Diane  answered,  "I  cannot  believe  it." 

"So?"  said  Louis.      "On  what  persuasion?" 

Diane  paused.  Louis  prodded  for  an  answer. 
"Come,  lady,  Sarto  is  a  gallant  fellow.  I  would 
gladly  be  persuaded.  The  evidence  against  him  is 
hot.  If  you  know  aught  to  cool  it,  you  '11  speak." 

"Sire,"  said  Diane,  "Monsieur  Sarto  was  not 
that  night  in  Paris." 

"So"?     What  was  Sarto' s  errand  out  of  Paris'?" 

Louis  took  her  fingers.  "Why,  look  you,  Mad 
emoiselle,  how  you  tremble !"  Then  a  sly  expres- 


228  Luca  Sarto 

sion  came  on  his  face.  "Be  of  comfort,  lady! 
We  '11  find  a  way  to  clear  Sarto  of  the  charge." 
He  went  off  abruptly,  humming  a  tune. 

They  lay  the  next  night  at  Plessis-lez-Tours. 
It  was  the  farthest  they  had  traveled  in  a  day.  It 
was  easily  seen  that  the  King  chafed  for  speed,  for 
at  noon  he  bolted  his  food,  and  called  the  others 
from  their  tables  before  they  had  hardly  got  their 
fingers  on  their  meats.  One  of  the  lords  who  rode 
at  the  tail  of  the  procession  whispered  to  Diane  as 
he  sucked  a  bone  of  a  fowl,  "The  candle  on  the 
hills  that  lighted  the  King  to  bed  last  night  threw 
bad  shadows  on  his  dreams."  Diane  made  no  re 
ply.  She  had  had  bad  dreams  herself,  as  a  con 
sequence  of  the  King's  talk  with  her. 

Plessis-lez-Tours  is  a  royal  seat  much  favored 
by  the  King.  It  lies  on  the  edge  of  the  city  of 
Tours  and  is  a  considerable  park.  They  were  ad 
vancing  through  this  with  such  speed  as  was  left 
in  the  mules  and  had  already  spied  the  turrets  of 
the  castle,  when  Louis  reined  in.  "Fellow,"  he 
called.  An  archer  who  stood  alongside  the  road 
came  up.  "How  goes  our  remedy  for  poaching*?'' 
the  King  asked.  "Does  the  evil  abate?" 

The  archer  waved  his  hand  toward  the  dusk  of 
the  trees,  and  smirked  as  he  answered.  "Your 


Maggots  of  the  Brain  229 

Majesty,"  he  said,  "we  've  hanged  as  many  as 
forty  of  the  varlets.  Did  the  wind  come  out  of 
the  north — "  He  made  a  sour  face  and  stopped. 
"There,  sire,  is  one  of  them,  hanging  from  that 
oak — as  thieving  a  rascal  as  ever  poached  his  din 
ner." 

It  had  been  a  hard  day,  and  the  King  grunted 
with  stiffness  as  they  helped  him  off  his  mule.  All 
fell  to  bed  when  supper  had  been  eaten. 

The  Lady  Diane  waited  on  the  Queen  as  usual. 
When  she  had  set  the  light  and  had  laid  a  brevi 
ary  on  the  stand — for  the  Queen  sleeps  ill  and 
reads  at  night — she  hung  the  royal  garments  at 
the  window.  Then  she  stopped  with  the  other 
ladies  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  if  perhaps  the  Queen 
had  a  last  word.  The  Queen  dismissed  the  others, 
but  retained  Diane.  She  bade  her  bring  a  stool 
alongside  the  bed.  Then  she  lifted  herself  on  her 
elbow  and  listened  until  the  footsteps  of  the  others 
died  away. 

"Diane,"  she  said  at  length,  "the  King  mis 
trusts  you.  Peace  until  I  finish.  For  myself,  I 
do  not  know  whether  you  be  compacted  with  our 
enemies,  but  I  love  you,  dearie,  and  I  would  not 
see  harm  come  to  you.  Therefore  I  bid  you  to  be 
gone  from  our  Court !"  She  kissed  Diane  on  the 


230  Luca  Sarto 

forehead.  Then  as  Diane  was  about  to  speak,  she 
interrupted  her:  "Before  we  depart  from  Loches 
for  Paris,  you  must  leave  us.  When  that  time 
comes  I  shall  provide  you  safe  conduct.  In  the 
meantime,  you  '11  scheme  as  little  wickedness  to 
ward  us  as  you  may." 

Diane  tried  to  answer,  but  the  Queen  was  firm 
in  dismissing  her.  Diane  felt  her  way  along  the 
hall  and  down  the  stairs.  But  when  in  bed,  she 
stared  upon  the  darkness  until  the  third  hour. 

The  branches  scratched  against  the  wall  and 
the  wind  moaned  in  the  forest. 

When  she  found  that  she  could  not  sleep,  she 
came  from  her  bed  and  sat  upon  the  stone  seat  at 
the  window.  The  sky  was  blurred,  and  rain  fell 
in  her  face.  And  as  the  night  was,  so  was  her 
heart.  And  presently  in  her  distress,  Diane  held 
out  her  arms  to  the  darkness.  "Jacques, 
Jacques,"  she  whispered,  "I  've  need  of  thee,  my 
brother.  My  heart  is  lonely.  Come  to  me, 
Jacques,  and  take  me  with  you!" 

Then  she  sat  quiet  and  almost  content,  with  her 
arms  extended  on  the  casement,  her  palms  open  to 
the  rain,  as  though  Jacques  were  somewhere  in  the 
darkness  and  he  had  heard  her  prayer. 

But    toward    morning — earlier    than    the    first 


Maggots  of  the  Brain  231 

streak  of  it — the  wind  shifted,  twisting  and  break 
ing  the  clouds.  An  old  moon,  ragged  like  a  beg 
gar,  threw  a  tattered  light  across  the  park. 

Diane's  head  had  fallen  on  her  hands,  but  the 
light  roused  her.  Moonlight  was  chasing  the 
shadows  across  the  lawn.  It  touched  with  silver 
the  edge  of  the  grove  beyond.  It  climbed  slowly 
up  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  It  lighted  their 
branches  to  the  top. 

But  Diane  sat  frozen  at  what  she  saw.  From 
a  tree  a  poacher's  body  hung,  dangling  and  tossing 
in  the  wind.  Now  the  branch  sagged  until  the 
toes  came  almost  to  the  ground,  and  seemed  to 
stretch  to  feel  it.  Then  the  branch  sprang  up  and 
spun  the  body  round. 

Diane  did  not  cry  aloud.  But  she  drew  her 
arm  across  her  eyes  and  tottered  from  the  window. 
She  threw  herself  face  down  upon  her  bed  and  lay 
shivering.  She  tried  to  weep  but  could  only  moan 
brokenly.  For  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  body  was 
the  body  of  Jacques,  caught  in  an  act  of  treason, 
that  it  was  thus  he  had  come  to  her,  to  bear  her  off. 
For  had  she  not  held  out  her  arms  to  the  night  for 
him,  and  the  wind  had  seemed  to  answer?  Yet 
the  wind  had  mocked  her. 

When  at  last  the  light  of  day  came,  she  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HOW   THE   SMUDGE    WAS    BLOWN    TO    LOUIS 

THE  next  day  the  King  was  closeted  until 
noon  with  his  council  on  news  that  came 
from  England.  For  at  last  Louis  had  heard  that 
Henry  VI  was  dead  in  the  Tower  of  London  and 
that  Edward  had  been  again  proclaimed  king — 
Burgundy's  Edward,  whose  very  armies  had 
drawn  their  pay  from  him.  For  a  new  insurrec 
tion  in  France,  this  might  be  the  signal.  Bur 
gundy  was  already  in  arms,  but  Guienne  was 
waspish  and  disaffected.  And  had  not  the  Duke 
of  Aragon  long  been  casting  eyes  on  Roussillon*? 
If  this  proved  to  be  the  blossom  time  for  general 
revolt,  the  saying  held  that  weeds  on  their  bur 
geoning  are  shallow  rooted.  And  thus  the  very 
wisdom  of  the  streets  advised  instancy.  "My  gar 
den  grows  foul  with  briars,"  Louis  had  brayed 
when  he  broke  the  meeting  up.  "This  brother 
of  mine — this  sprout,  this  stem,  this  weed  that 
runs  so  full  of  sap,  chokes  the  fair  lily  of  our 

France.     By  God,  I  '11  break  him  at  the  root." 

232 


How  the  Smudge  was  Blown  to  Louis     233 

It  was  past  midday  when  they  took  the  road  to 
Loches.  And  Diane  went  with  them  fearfully. 

Toward  night  they  came  up  the  hill  through  the 
town  of  Loches.  Louis,  who  rode  ahead,  turned 
in  his  saddle  and  craned  his  neck  until  he  saw 
Diane.  Then  he  called  to  her  over  the  heads  of 
those  who  were  between.  "Mademoiselle,  me- 
thinks  you  have  never  seen  our  pretty  castle. 
Yonder  is  a  tower  of  it." 

Now  the  tower  to  which  he  pointed  was  the 
great  dungeon.  And  when  he  had  spoken,  he  sat 
twisted  on  his  mule,  with  his  knuckles  supporting 
him  against  the  creature's  back.  "Go  long,  you 
pig!"  he  said,  as  the  animal  stopped.  And  then: 
"What  think  you  of  it,  Mademoiselle1?  Is  it  not 
a  pretty  building?" 

Diane  could  say  no  more  than,  "Ay,  it  is,"  but 
she  brooded  afterwards  on  what  the  King  had 
meant,  for  Louis  was  not  a  lady's  man  to  trick 
words  idly. 

It  was  the  journey's  end.  All  sought  their 
rooms  in  the  castle. 

Mademoiselle  tells  me  that  she  had  scarcely 
bathed  and  smocked  herself  when  her  serving  var- 
lets  brought  in  her  chest  of  clothes.  With  them 
came  her  tire  woman,  a  pert  wench  whose  name 


234  Luca  Sarto 

was  Marie.  The  varlets  had  offered  to  flirt  with 
her  upon  the  stairs,  but  she  had  snubbed  them,  for 
she  had  a  lover  in  the  guard.  She  bade  them 
loosen  the  straps  of  the  chest.  Then  she  laid  out 
Mademoiselle's  garments,  shaking  and  smoothing 
them. 

Mademoiselle's  choice  fell  on  a  blue  garment. 
It  was  contrived  to  the  figure,  but  flared  out  be 
low  the  waist.  Sarto  's  no  sempstress,  so  he  '11 
not  describe  it.  Marie  by  going  round  about 
snapped  on  the  buttons  and  the  hooks  that  made 
it  fast.  Then  she  stood  off.  "It 's  marvelous 
sweet,"  she  said,  but  she  crossed  herself.  "In 
this  blue  gown,  Mademoiselle,  you  are  like  the 
blessed  Madonna  herself." 

Diane  took  up  the  candle  to  light  her  in  the  hall. 
Its  light  fell  again  across  her  face. 

Marie  looked  at  her  and  gave  a  little  cry.  "Ah, 
lady,"  she  said,  "the  Madonna  is  not  more  beau 
tiful." 

Diane  wondered  at  her,  but  as  dinner  pressed 
she  left  her. 

Diane  met  the  Queen  upon  the  stairs,  and  they 
sought  the  hall  together.  "You  are  attired  in 
blue,  to-night.  It 's  a  color  the  King  much  ad 
mires."  This  from  the  Queen. 


How  the  Smudge  was  Blown  to  Louis     235 

Louis  dined  alone. 

With  his  knife  he  traced  the  plan  of  Beauvais 
upon  the  cloth  and  set  the  pepperpot  to  be  the 
citadel.  The  river  's  here,  he  said.  He  laid  a 
spoon  to  mark  it,  then  fell  to  scheming  for  the 
town's  defence. 

But  presently  he  sneezed,  drenching  the  citadel 
with  wind  and  rain.  Olivier  came  at  a  trot. 
"Sire,"  he  said,  "a  murk  comes  off  the  river.  It 's 
vile  in  the  blood.  You  must  put  your  legs  to 
night  in  mustard  water."  Louis  cried  "Pish !" 
But  Olivier  was  firm.  He  sat  nodding  for  a  min 
ute  on  Louis's  tongue,  then  stirred  a  fiery  salve 
and  sent  him  off  to  bed. 

Beauvais  was  abandoned  to  his  enemies. 

The  following  morning  the  King  awakened 
cured  but  in  ill  humor.  A  servant  brought  to  him 
a  basin  of  water  for  washing  and  drew  aside  the 
window  hanging,  whereat  the  King  squinted  in  the 
light.  He  drew  himself  to  a  sitting  posture  on  his 
four-post  bed  and  wrapped  the  covering  close 
about  him.  Miserable  and  poor,  the  king,  with 
the  searching  light  across  his  tumbled  bed,  his  thin 
hands  holding  the  clothing  to  his  throat  and  his 
shoulders  drawn  forward  by  the  chill. 

For  his  breakfast,  which  was  brought  on  pewter 


236  Luca  Sarto 

service,  he  had  little  appetite,  and  he  poked  his 
food  with  his  fingers.  Dio,  this  King  with  his 
fingers  poked  his  food.  When  these  became  wet 
and  sticky,  he  wiped  them  on  his  nightcap,  which 
by  its  looks  had  served  a  week  of  breakfasts. 
Meantime  the  thoughts  that  chased  across  his 
brain  were  unpleasant,  and  they  left  on  his  face 
the  furrows  of  their  evil  course. 

"Francois !"  he  called. 

A  fellow  who  was  bearing  off  the  ewer  stopped 
and  turned. 

"Francois,  Tristan  waits  without.  Bid  him 
enter."  Louis  moved  the  bolster  at  his  back  and 
squirmed  until  he  found  comfort.  His  sharp 
knees  brought  the  blanket  to  a  point. 

Tristan  entered  and  fumbled  with  his  cap  be 
fore  the  door.  He  was  a  shabby  fellow  with  a 
dirty  cloak  thrown  about  his  shoulders  and  with 
stable  dung  clinging  to  his  feet.  He  was  thin- 
thatched  a-top,  and  no  bat,  however  blind,  would 
have  tried  to  go  a-nesting  there.  His  face  was 
ugly,  all  crease  and  seam,  with  a  drunkard's  nose 
smoldering  in  its  midst.  If  his  red  nose  had  been 
set  at  the  window  of  a  tavern,  it  would  have 
served  as  a  beacon  for  lost  travelers.  Or  it  would 
have  admirably  furnished  the  swinging  board  be- 


How  the  Smudge  was  Blown  to  Louis     237 

fore  the  door,  seeming  to  speak  thus :  "Good  sirs, 
here  is  the  sign  of  the  fiery  nose.  There  's  strong 
drink  inside." 

This  was  Tristan,  sketched  to  life,  the  heads 
man  of  the  King.  I  do  pray  me  to  God  that  I 
live  to  pay  him  for  his  dirty  attentions  to  me,  soon 
to  come. 

"Tristan,"  the  King  began.  The  fellow 
shifted  to  the  other  leg.  "Tristan,  you  bore  me 
news  last  night  that  you  had  traced  Jacques  Mo- 
tier  to  his  place  of  hiding  on  the  Montrichard 
road." 

"It  was  quite  by  chance,  sire.  I  had  just  come 
from  pumping  a  servant  of  Luca  Sarto  dry,  when 
by  good  luck — and  luck  it  was — whom  should  I 
see  but  Jacques  Motier.  So  I  followed  him." 

Tristan  was  prepared  to  run  on.  Somewhat 
slighting  the  King  had  been  on  past  occasions,  but 
now  would  be  amends.  He  would  again  be  "dear 
friend  Tristan."  He  had  favors  to  ask.  With 
Jacques  trapped  in  his  hiding,  the  King  would  be 
in  a  giving  mood. 

But  Louis  broke  him  short.  "Peace,  Tristan. 
I  've  got  the  tale  by  heart  already.  Listen  to 
me !  Tristan,  I  now  bid  you  to  arrest  this  Motier 
and  to  bring  him  to  me  here  at  Loches.  God's 


238  Luca  Sarto 

love,  old  crony,  I  'd  like  to  go  for  him  myself.  It 
will  be  sport  for  you.  And  you  will  put  him  in 
the  empty  dungeon  below  Balue's  cage.  Then 
come  and  tell  me,  Tristan,  whether  it  be  day  or 
night." 

Tristan  grinned.  Here  was  a  promise  of  a 
golden  dawn.  "Sire,"  he  said,  "methinks  there 
will  be  work  for  me  anon.  I  grow  rusty  for  want 
of  practice." 

"It 's  likely  enough,  my  dear  headsman,  but 
wait  the  event.  We  '11  fill  the  tub  with  water 
when  the  rat  is  inside  our  trap." 

He  waved  Tristan  off,  then  called  him  back. 

"Tristan,"  he  said,  "my  dearest  friend,  I  've 
heard  it  was  a  brave  mouse  that  nested  in  a  cat's 
ear.  Luca  Sarto  sleeps  at  the  Gray  Moon.  You 
may  pick  him  up  as  you  go  along.  I  '11 
make  a  mouthful  of  the  pretty  creature." 

Tristan  rubbed  his  hands  with  pleasure,  then 
backed  himself  to  the  door  and  out.  There  was 
one  smell  the  less  within  the  room. 

And  now  there  was  a  noise  in  the  hall  outside 
The  servant  Francois  thrust  in  his  head,  eager  with 
news. 

"Your  Majesty,  here  's  a  horseman  says  he  must 
see  you  on  the  instant." 


How  the  Smudge  was  Blown  to  Louis     239 

This  horseman  was  the  same  whom  we  saw  but 
two  days  since  at  the  gate  of  the  Tournelles,  newly 
arrived  from  Brittany,  bawling  for  the  King. 
And  now  at  last  he  told  his  message.  "Sire,"  he 
began,  "Brittany  is  in  arms."  And  so  rattled  to 
the  end — how  there  were  flames  upon  the  hills, 
and  how  the  villages  from  Rennes  to  Rouen  were 
stirred.  But  he  got  no  further,  for  Louis  kicked 
off  the  sheet  and  thrust  out  his  legs. 

"Francois,"  he  cried.  "Fetch  in  my  gear! 
There  's  man's  work  to-day.  Ha,  Frangois,  boy, 
you  '11  help  me  with  this  shift.  I  '11  take  Bur 
gundy  by  the  nose  to-day.  Bring  in  my  boots!" 
And  so  on,  until  he  was  dressed.  And  then: 
"Bid  my  lords  come  in!" 

He  ranged  about  the  room  until  all  his  lords 
were  set. 

Louis  was  in  high  glee  now,  and  he  roared  upon 
them  what  plans  lay  to  his  purpose.  Meanwhile 
a  secretary  sat  upon  a  stool.  The  fellow  had  no 
time  for  nibbling  at  his  quill,  for  Louis  kept  him 
scratching.  When  all  was  done,  the  secretary 
read  out  the  proclamation  that  Louis  had  com 
posed.  The  lords  nodded  their  approval.  The 
paper  ran  to  many  words.  I  '11  give  but  the  ker 
nel  of  it. 


240  Luca  Sarto 

"Be  it  proclaimed  in  Paris,  Orleans,  Tours,  and 
in  such  other  cities  as  We  shall  designate,  that  We, 
Louis  by  the  grace  of  God,  King  of  France,  in 
our  mercy  for  our  people  and  in  recognition  of  our 
duty  to  hold  our  realm  inviolate — do  order  the 
mayors  of  these  cities  forthwith  to  summon  all 
nobles  and  not  nobles,  holding  any  lands  by  hom 
age  or  fealty  to  the  Crown,  to  be  ready  in  arms  on 
the  first  day  of  June  following,  on  pain  of  im 
prisonment  and  confiscation  of  goods.  By  these 
same  letters  patent  all  officers  of  Ourself  are  for 
bidden  to  admit  of  any  excuse  or  certificate  from 
any  persons  whatsoever  holding  lands  or  tenures 
by  homage  or  fealty  of  the  Crown;  and  that  who 
soever  shall  refuse  to  obey  the  summons  shall  be 
looked  upon  as  enemies  to  Us,  and  be  punished  as 
rebels  and  traitors  to  their  country." 

Louis  twitched  with  impatience  until  the  secre 
tary  had  read  it  through.  Then  he  cried  out. 
"Ha,  my  lords,  methinks  this  Charles  of  Bur 
gundy  has  worn  too  long  Edward's  garter  on  his 
leg.  With  your  help  I  '11  pluck  it  off.  As  for 
my  brother  Charles,  God's  word,  I  '11  take  him  by 
the  nose,  until  he  bawls  for  mercy."  Then  he 
broke  up  the  meeting  and  packed  them  off. 

You  think,  perhaps,  that  Sarto  is  no  better  than 


How  the  Smudge  was  Blown  to  Louis     241 

a  chronicler,  a  rascal  who  is  always  peeping  in  at 
holes  and  cudgeling  his  invention  to  find  matter 
for  his  gossip.  Here,  you  think,  he  pretends  to 
have  seen  the  King  without  his  shift,  that  common 
folk  will  marvel  at  his  closeness  to  the  great.  If 
you  do  think  that  Sarto  brags,  you  do  him  injus 
tice.  I  tell  these  things  as  they  happened,  with 
word  of  witnesses. 

Then  the  King's  gleeful  mood  fell  sour.  Fear 
pinched  him,  and  disease. 

Here  had  he  come  to  Loches  to  pray  to  the  Vir 
gin  to  help  him  to  mend  his  health.  Even  though 
war  was  in  the  field,  it  was  well  to  take  occasion 
to  kneel  to  her.  He  could  squeeze  the  time  be 
tween  his  appointments  and  urge  the  Virgin  to  be 
spry.  If  she  could  mend  him  from  the  stone,  it 
would  be  the  worse  for  Burgundy. 

And  who  could  tell  when  the  miracle  might 
happen  that  had  been  foretold"?  Who  could  say 
when  the  Madonna  might  come  to  life  and  make 
him  whole  by  the  touch  of  her  blessed  hands'? 

So  Louis  rose  and  washed  himself  and  sought 
the  church  of  the  Madonna  of  Saint  Ours. 

These  events  happened  on  the  first  morning 
after  his  arrival  in  Loches. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

I    AM    ASSAILED    BY    THE    LITTLE    PINK    GOD 

ON  this  same  morning  I  set  out  from  the  Gray 
Moon  inn,  where  I  had  been  housled  on  the 
previous  day,  to  find  Mademoiselle. 

But  first  I  rubbed  the  smouches  off  my  old 
brown  doublet  and  set  a  gay  primrose  on  my  front. 
The  chemist  had  sweet  scent  of  a  sharp  and  pleas 
ant  odor.  I  bought  an  ounce.  My  shift  was  in 
its  second  week,  so  I  soused  it. 

I  stopped  for  my  sword.  Thinking  it  might 
advantage  the  smith  among  his  customers  to 
know  for  whom  he  had  done  the  work — the  ar 
morers  of  Milan  would  have  boasted  of  it — I  gave 
him  my  name.  But  the  fool  wiped  his  nose  along 
his  arm  and  knew  not  of  me. 

"I  'm  told,"  I  said,  "that  there  was  a  brawl  on 
the  streets  two  nights  ago." 

The  smith  paused  with  uplifted  hammer. 
"The  rogues  got  their  just  pay  to  an  even  cen 
time,"  he  said.  "They  set  on  an  honest  stranger 
who  had  passed  his  evening  in  the  inn.  There 
were  witnesses  that  he  fought  in  self-defense." 


/  Am  Assailed  by  the  Little  Pink  God     243 

I  passed  on,  eased  of  the  fear  that  Maistro's 
death  might  plague  me. 

The  town  runs  up  hill.  On  top  stands  the  sul 
len  castle.  I  was  admitted  without  parley. 

At  the  end  of  a  winding  ascent  the  road 
sheered  to  the  dungeons,  but  at  the  turn  there  was 
an  opening  in  the  wall.  A  garden  lay  inside  with 
the  Collegiate  Church  of  Saint  Ours  beyond  the 
trees.  Inquiry  had  told  me  that  Mademoiselle 
would  be  at  service,  so  I  turned  in. 

The  garden  sits  on  the  brow  of  a  pleasant  hill 
above  the  sunny  valley  of  the  Indre.  Cattle  fed 
across  the  sleepy  meadows  and  gathered  in  the 
shadow.  White-legged  washerwomen,  far  dis 
tant,  soaped  their  linen  and  scrubbed  them  on  the 
stones  in  the  shallow  stream.  Their  cries  and 
friendly  chatter  came  upward  in  the  wind.  I 
marked  the  progress,  also,  of  a  donkey  driver,  far 
below  me  on  the  road,  whose  song — "L* Amour  de 
Moi"  for  I  knew  its  tune — came  to  me  now  and 
then  as  the  breeze  shifted. 

The  De  Profundis  Clamavi  had  ceased  by  the 
time  I  reached  the  door  of  the  church,  and  there 
was  a  sound  of  movement  within.  The  service 
was  at  an  end. 

As  I  wished  to  meet  the  Lady  Diane  privately, 


244  Luca  Sarto 

I  went  aside  about  an  hundred  paces,  where  I 
could  see  her  when  she  came  out.  Presently  she 
appeared  at  the  church  door,  nodding  to  her  ac 
quaintance.  She  was  clad  in  usual  blue  with  a 
jeweled  cap  on  her  head.  Her  beauty  out-topped 
my  recollection.  It  had  increased,  like  usury,  its 
sum  and  total.  She  needed  neither  firelight  nor 
candle.  Her  hair  was  yellow  like  ripe  straw  and 
was  gathered  in  a  gold  mesh  set  with  turquoise. 

She  caught  my  eye  at  once  and  started  in  some 
fright.  Then  of  a  sudden,  leaving  her  compan 
ions,  she  turned  into  the  shrubbery  toward  the 
palace  buildings.  When  she  had  gone  a  minute's 
distance  I  followed  after  her.  "Mademoiselle 
Diane !"  I  called,  when  I  had  come  close. 

She  turned  at  the  sound.  "What  does  Luca 
Sarto  here1?  I  pray  you  do  not  bring  bad  news." 

"Your  brother  sends  word  that  he  prospers." 

"Mary  be  praised!"  she  replied.  Then  fear 
came  on  her  face.  "My  brother1?"  she  asked. 
"What  do  you  know  of  him*?  I  sent  you  to  find 
Jacques  Bonnet." 

"It 's  so  you  did,  dear  lady.  But  you  put  too 
low  a  value  on  Sarto's  wit.  Your  brother  is  here 
in  Loches." 

"In  Loches,"  she  repeated  in  despair.     "He  is 


I  Am  Assailed  by  the  Little  Pink  God     245 

not  in  the  castle?     He  is  not  in  the  dungeons?" 

"No,  no,  Mademoiselle.     Your  brother  is  free." 

She  sighed  with  relief.  "And  does  he  bid  me  to 
come  to  him?" 

"To-night,  Mademoiselle." 

"Then  God  be  praised." 

"Mademoiselle,"  I  said,  "this  place  is  public. 
If  we  may  seek  a  spot  off  the  path,  I  '11  tell  you 
these  things  from  the  start." 

We  went  through  the  taller  grasses,  Diane  in 
front,  and  came  upon  a  bench  that  was  screened  by 
shrubbery.  "Know  then—  "  I  began,  and  told  her 
all.  "And  so,"  was  how  I  made  an  end,  "your 
brother  Jacques  bids  me  to  bring  you  to  him  to 
night.  It 's  four  miles  on  the  road  to  Montri- 
chard." 

During  my  narration  Diane  had  watched  me 
closely.  When  I  told  about  the  fight  on  the 
bakeshop  steps  and  the  bruises  I  took  in  my  fall, 
moved  by  a  sudden  sympathy,  she  put  her  hand 
upon  my  arm.  Tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  Sarto,"  she  said,  "you  prove  yourself  my 
friend." 

"Dear  lady,"  I  began,  but  fell  to  stammering. 

Her  fingers  lingered  for  a  moment  and  were 
gone  like  a  fleeting  pleasure. 


246  Luca  Sarto 

"And  does  my  brother,"  she  asked,  "bid  me 
come  to  him  merely  for  a  parley,  or  do  we  jour 
ney  off  together?" 

"Your  brother  bids  you  dress  for  travel." 

"Then  the  Blessed  Virgin  is  good  to  me,"  said 
Mademoiselle.  She  pointed  to  the  distant  pal 
ace.  "I  '11  be  quit  of  this  place  forever.  My  life 
has  been  unhappy  here  and  in  Paris." 

Mademoiselle  lapsed  into  silence.  At  length 
she  spoke  again :  "Two  of  your  enemies,  Sarto,  are 
now  dead — Oliver  and  Maistro — only  one  is  left." 

"Of  whom  do  you  speak,  Mademoiselle'?" 

Diane  turned  on  me  a  searching  look.  "Do  you 
not  know,"  she  said,  "that  King  Louis  is  your 
enemy1?" 

"Then,  Mademoiselle,  he  shows  it  strangely." 
I  displayed  the  ring  upon  my  finger  which  he  had 
given  me  in  the  Tournelles.  "See  this!"  I  said. 
"And  is  not  the  Palais  Saint  Louis  the  gift  rather 
of  a  friend?" 

But  Mademoiselle  was  disturbed.  "Luca 
Sarto,"  she  said,  "if  I  had  known  on  the  night 
that  I  sent  for  you  in  Paris  that  you  would  grow 
to  be  my  friend,  I  would  not  have  sent  for  you." 

"You  speak  a  riddle,  Diane." 

"If  I  had  known  that  it  was  my  friend  that  I 


/  Am  Assailed  by  the  Little  Pink  God     247 

would  entangle  in  these  plots,  I  could  not  have 
done  it." 

"Plots,  Diane !  You  did  but  send  me  on  an  er 
rand.  I  would  have  done  more  than  you  asked 
and  thanked  you  for  the  opportunity." 

Suddenly  Diane  faced  me.  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  trouble.  "Have  you  thought,  Sarto,  who  I 
am,  and  into  what  dangers  I  have  led  you?  I 
have  paid  you  ill." 

"Peace,  Diane.  I  am  no  youngling.  I  have 
eyes  and  ears.  I  knew  that  night  in  Paris  that  the 
King  had  you  under  watch.  When  the  archer  fell 
in  the  door,  it  showed  it  clear.  And  when  you 
summoned  me  to  bear  your  message,  do  you  think 
that  I  did  not  know  its  import?  The  white  rose 
is  the  color  of  England,  lady.  I  have  not 
smutched  myself  with  much  knowledge  of  the  is 
landers,  but  I  knew  that  much.  So  when  Made 
moiselle  confessed  herself  of  Burgundy,  I  knew 
the  meaning  of  the  message  that  I  carried." 

"And  do  you  not  see,  therefore,  how  Louis  is 
your  enemy?" 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  Diane.  But  fear  not! 
So  long  as  Pope  Paul  totters  and  Rovere  is  likely 
to  the  office,  so  long  am  I  safe  with  Louis." 

"It  is  not  so,  Sarto.     Trust  not  to  Rovere  now ! 


248  Luca  Sarto 

With  a  storm  blowing  up  from  the  four  corners  of 
France,  Louis  will  snap  at  all  who  have  opposed 
him.  As  for  his  gifts — when  Louis  smiles  most, 
he  is  the  most  to  be  feared.  It  is  I,  Sarto,  who 
have  meshed  you  in  these  plots.  Do  you  not  hate 
me  for  it?" 

I  laughed  aloud.     "Hate  you,  Diane?"  I  cried. 

"God  knows  that  I  love  you.     Dear  lady — Diane 

—I  would  go  down  into  yonder  dungeon  for  your 

smile.     Heaven  is  the  color  of  your  eyes.     Such 

as  I  am,  Diane,  I  offer  you  myself." 

She  had  dropped  her  head  and  sat  silent  at  my 
outburst.  Her  arm  hung  idle  at  her  side,  and 
with  my  fingers  I  touched  her  wrist.  At  the  touch 
she  looked  at  me.  Then  as  my  fingers  lingered, 
she  closed  on  them  and  carried  my  hand  to  her 
breast.  She  smoothed  back  the  fingers  with  a 
marvelously  soft  touch.  Then  she  put  my  hand 
by.  "Not  now,  Luca  Sarto.  There  may  come  a 
time  later  when  I  '11  hear  your  message,  but  in 
these  dangerous  days  be  content  to  be  my  friend." 

"My  thoughts,  Diane,  fly  in  the  wind  like 
smoke  from  a  winter's  chimney.  But  I  '11  bank 
my  fire." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  me  and  touched 
my  cheek. 


I  Am  Assailed  by  the  Little  Pink  God     249 

I  was  startled  by  the  snapping  of  twigs.  Diane 
had.  heard  it  too,  and  we  both  turned  together. 
Behind  us,  fifty  paces  off,  stood  King  Louis,  strok 
ing  his  chin  to  keep  from  smirking. 

I  arose  in  a  rage,  but  Diane  stayed  me. 
"Sarto,"  she  said,  "it  is  his  Majesty.  Doff  your 
hat!"  She  herself  made  a  low  curtsey.  I  swal 
lowed  my  anger  and  followed  suit. 

Louis,  by  his  grin,  was  in  a  pleasant  mood. 
"Diane,"  he  said,  "my  dear,  I  'm  sorry  to  have 
frightened  you.  I  crave  your  pardon.  It 's  so 
sweet  a  day.  The  sunlight  makes  me  young  my 
self.  Mademoiselle,  I  ask  a  favor."  And  he 
bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  Then  he  spoke  to  me : 
"Monsieur,  you  woo  the  loveliest,  lady  of  our 
Court — a  daughter  in  my  affections.  If  I  were 
once  more  the  Dauphin,  I  'd  push  you  as  a  rival." 
He  laughed  with  a  smiling  show  of  teeth. 
"Tweet,  tweet!  The  spring  is  here!"  His 
crooked  back  disappeared  under  the  trees. 

Diane  fell  to  trembling.  "Oh,  fear  him, 
Sarto!"  she  said;  "fear  him  when  he  smiles!" 

"Methinks  he  was  too  far  off  to  hear  our  talk, 
Diane." 

"It  does  not  matter.  Without  it  he  knows  that 
we  are  intrigued  with  his  enemies." 


250  Luca  Sarto 

"Diane,"  I  asked,  "in  how  great  danger  do  you 
stand'?" 

"Danger?  Twice  the  Queen  has  warned  me 
that  I  must  be  gone  from  Louis's  clutches." 

"Then  your  brother  comes  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"Ay,  he  does.  For  weeks  Louis  has  suspected 
me.  I  think  that  even  now  he  spreads  a  net  for 
his  victims — to-morrow — perhaps  even  to-day. 
But  to-night  I  shall  ride  off  and  not  return." 

She  thought  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "Are  the 
Orsini  as  dangerous  as  this  Louis'?"  she  asked. 
"Is  not  even  Italy  safer  for  you  than  France  is 
now*?" 

I  laughed,  for  a  thought — perhaps  her  thought 
also — had  come  to  me.  "Mademoiselle,  on  these 
travels  of  yours,  would  you  admit  me  to  your  com 
pany?  I  care  little  where  I  journey.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  looks  of  this  crooked  Louis  to  hold 
me  to  his  Court." 

"Dear  friend,  we  travel  to  Switzerland.  You 
are  welcome  to  go  with  us." 

"God  be  praised!"  I  cried.  "And  do  we  start 
to-night?" 

"An  hour  before  the  dusk,"  she  answered,  "if 
you  will  come  for  me." 

Diane  arose  from  the  bench.     "I  am  thankful 


I  Am  Assailed  by  the  Little  Pink  God     251 

to    have    made    a    friend    to-day,    Luca    Sarto." 

"Diane,"  I  answered,  "you  made  a  friend  on 
that  night  in  Paris  when  you  came  to  me  for  shel 
ter.  You  sat  in  my  firelight,  and  I  dreamed  all 
the  night  of  you.  The  wind  has  blown  your 
name  to  me.  And  it  has  been  in  the  soft  patter  of 
the  rain.  Wherever  music  has  crossed  the  earth, 
you  were  the  melody.  I  love  you,  Diane." 

I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her  cheeks  and  lips. 

Then  silence  came  on  us  both.  I  watched  her 
as  she  went  lightly  through  the  shrubbery,  whose 
branches  leaned  forward  to  caress  her.  I  heard 
the  wind  from  the  forest,  felt  the  morning  sun 
light  on  my  face,  knew  what  vigor  and  beauty  was 
in  the  world,  yet  myself  was  silent. 

And  so  I  left  Diane,  marveling  on  God's  mir 
acles.  I  went  down  the  hill  into  the  town.  And 
over  and  over  again  her  speech  throbbed  in  me. 
And  a  melody  sang  in  my  head,  of  which  her  name 
was  the  whole. 

And  if  you  laugh,  I  '11  strike  you  dead.  In  my 
own  light  days  I  'd  seen  men  thus  go  pale,  and  I 
had  tapped  my  head,  as  though  their  weakness  lay 
there.  Yet  look  upon  me  now!  'Tis  a  strange 
juice  the  pink  god  dips  his  arrows  in,  so  to  whirl 
the  brain  about. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    DAY    OF    WONDERS 

FOR  the  events  I  '11  tell  you  now,  priests  were 
my  witnesses.  These  are  serious  matters, 
not  for  a  skipping  ear.  You  must  not  sit  and 
yawn  upon  the  ceiling.  If  you  cannot  be  atten 
tive,  it  were  better  that  you  seek  the  jugglers  for 
your  entertainment. 

It  is  to  the  Day  of  Wonders  that  I  come  now. 
I  '11  tell  the  events  as  the  priests  reported  them. 
Commine's  chronicle  is  wry  and  twisted  from 
the  truth. 

I  wish,  on  the  one  hand,  not  to  throw  discredit 
on  the  miracle,  nor,  on  the  other,  to  vouch  for  the 
facts  of  it.  I  write  only  what  the  priests  have 
told  me.  You  must  judge  for  yourself  whether 
the  Madonna  really  nodded  in  the  dusk. 

But  first,  this,  in  general — for  your  instruction. 

Between  France  and  Italy  there  is  a  great  differ 
ence.  In  France  there  is  a  readier  belief  in  what 
is  miraculous  and  beyond  the  common  use.  It  is, 
so  to  speak,  a  village  country,  with  a  credent  ear 

for  priests.     One  would  think  that   it  had  just 

252 


The  Day  of  Wonders  253 

crept  out  of  the  thirteenth  century,  for  it  swears 
by  Saint  Dominic  and  by  the  cloak  of  Benedict. 
For  all  good  men,  both  high  and  low — and  for 
some  that  are  not  so  good — there  are  orisons  daily 
and  nocturns  of  the  psalter,  matins  of  Our  Lady, 
and  of  the  Holy  Cross. 

This  is  not  so  in  Italy,  either  in  Vatican,  or  pal 
ace,  or  in  gutter.  Pious  fervor  of  this  kind  would 
not  have  brought  to  light  the  buried  ages.  That 
was  a  task  for  wit  and  quick  invention.  Italy  is 
all  agog  for  Greece.  It  is  no  place  to  peddle  rel 
ics  of  the  church.  Pagan  is  the  persuasive  word. 
Hercules  fills  well  the  mouth  when  an  oath  is 
needed.  As  for  Hebrew,  wherein  the  Scriptures 
were  written,  who  knows  a  bit*?  Did  the  word 
pop  up  in  talk,  it 's  of  the  Dutch  Fuggers  we 
would  think,  lending  their  Jewish  gold  for  usury. 
We  have  sheered  far  off  the  thirteenth  century. 

But  in  France  chapels  still  leap  across  the 
mountains.  A  kiss  on  a  holy  nail  dries  a  run 
ning  sore.  Church  bells  ward  off  witches.  A 
dead  Jew  checks  the  plague.  The  seventh  egg  of 
a  black  hen  upon  a  Friday  never  rots.  In  France 
it  is  still  believed  that  women  become  pregnant 
by  eating  lilies.  As  for  myself,  I  '11  stab  only 
the  Jews  that  cheat  me.  I  '11  wait  to  see  a  flying 


254  Luca  Sarto 

chapel.  As  for  the  innocent  creatures  that  feed 
on  lilies,  I  suspect  a  stealthy  tread  of  heavy  boots 
down  the  stairway  in  the  dawn. 

Yet — whatever  be  your  own  thought  on  mir 
acles — you  '11  oblige  me  by  not  putting  your 
thumb  against  your  nose. 

Louis  dismissed  his  counselors  with  whom  he 
had  discussed  the  dire  news  from  England  and 
Brittany.  He  was  in  the  high  humor  of  his  ex 
citement.  Here  was  a  time  to  invoke  the  Virgin. 
He  went  from  the  palace  and  sought  the  Church 
of  Saint  Ours. 

But  first,  as  you  know,  he  stumbled  on  me  and 
Diane  in  the  garden.  He  grinned  with  good 
humor  as  he  went  off.  "Tweet,  Tweet !  The 
spring  is  here!"  Then  to  himself,  when  he  was 
beyond  our  hearing:  "Tristan  presently  will 
come  for  Sarto.  To-morrow  will  answer  for 
Mademoiselle." 

Louis  shook  off  his  merry  mood,  and  as  a  sup 
pliant  he  knelt  before  the  Madonna.  For  this 
he  had  come  on  pilgrimage  all  the  way  from 
Paris,  if  by  any  chance  she  might  stir  with  life  and 
ease  him  of  his  complaints.  The  fires  upon  the 
Norman  hills  were  naught,  if  he  had  strength  to 
stamp  them  out. 


The  Day  of  Wonders  255 

He  held  his  arms  aloft.  They  were  yellow, 
for  his  sleeves  fell  back.  And  he  prayed  that  she, 
as  in  the  days  foregone,  might  come  to  life.  A 
white  garment  was  upon  her  and  over  this  a  pale 
blue  mantel  hung.  A  crown  of  gold  was  on  her 
head.  Her  hair  was  yellow  like  ripened  straw, 
and  her  eyes  were  blue.  And  oh  that  she  might 
come  to  life!  he  prayed,  and  that  some  slight 
nodding  of  the  head  might  so  attest.  It  was  in 
the  chancel  that  he  knelt,  and  the  priests  kept 
guard  at  the  door  so  that  his  devotions  might  be 
undisturbed.  Wondrous  would  be  this  day,  if 
this  should  come  to  pass,  as  in  the  olden  day, 
when  she  walked  forth  in  the  market-ways  upon 
her  blessed  feet,  and  all  who  touched  her  garment 
were  made  whole.  "Glorify  thy  Son,"  he  cried, 
"that  the  Son  may  glorify  thee."  Then  he 
bowed  his  head,  with  his  palms  open  against  the 
stones. 

Thus  through  hours  he  agonized,  and  often 
glanced  up  for  any  sign.  But  no  sign  came,  al 
though  his  eyes  and  brain  were  fevered.  Day 
went  on,  morning  and  noon,  and  still  the  King 
was  prostrate.  His  hands  and  dress  were 
smutched  with  the  dust  of  the  pavement,  but  he 
still  kept  upon  his  prayers.  "Save  me,  God;  for 


256  Luca  Sarto 

the  waters  are  come  in  unto  my  soul.  I  sink  in 
deep  mire,  where  there  is  no  standing:  I  am 
come  into  deep  waters,  where  the  floods  overflow 
me.  I  am  weary  of  my  crying:  my  throat  is 
dried:  mine  eyes  fail  while  I  wait  for  my  God." 

And  twilight  came  and  shadows,  nor  any  candle 
was  set  about.  And  from  the  world  outside  there 
came  a  darkness  on  his  spirits,  that  still  the 
Madonna  made  no  sign,  nor  nod  nor  yet  a  move 
ment  even  of  a  finger.  Then  twilight  passed, 
and  the  deeper  shadows  crept  to  the  King.  In 
gloom  stood  the  Madonna,  immobile. 

And  then,  behold,  there  came  the  miracle — the 
same  miracle  as  in  those  far  off  days  when  Jesus' 
blessed  feet  walked  upon  the  streets  of  Palestine. 

"Mother  of  God,"  he  prayed,  and  his  voice  was 
weak,  "Blessed  Mary,  comfort  thy  broken  ser 
vant!"  And  when  he  had  finished,  he  held  his 
arms  aloft  and  looked  upon  the  Virgin's  face. 
And  in  the  darkness — give  heed  to  this — in  the 
darkness  he  saw  some  slight  nodding  of  the  Vir 
gin's  head.  It  was  indistinct  and  then  she  stood 
stockfast  again. 

Up  Louis  arose,  all  cramped,  but  spluttering 
with  the  knowledge.  About  him  flocked  the 
priests,  of  whom  one  had  also  seen  the  nodding, 


The  Day  of  Wonders  257 

and  they  clamored  of  it.  But  this  one  priest 
had  entered  to  lay  vestments  on  the  altar,  and  he 
had  caught  the  movement  by  chance,  yet  was  cer 
tain  of  it.  And  their  excitement  went  buzzing 
all  about  and  out  through  door  and  window.  For 
they  took  it  for  a  sign  that  soon  the  Virgin  would 
be  warm  with  life  and  would  heal  the  sick  with 
her  garment's  touch. 

They  prayed,  but  in  confusion.  One  thus: 
"The  people  that  walked  in  darkness  have  seen  a 
great  light:  they  that  dwelt  in  the  land  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  upon  them  hath  the  light 
shined."  And  another:  "The  glory  of  Jehovah 
shall  be  revealed,  and  all  flesh  shall  see  it  together; 
for  the  mouth  of  Jehovah  hath  spoken  it."  And 
they  were  amazed  by  what  things  they  had  seen, 
and  the  babble  of  it  went  forth. 

This  happened  at  the  twenty-first  hour,  when 
it  was  already  dark. 

But  the  King,  in  a  measure,  was  already 
mended.  His  back  was  straight  and  his  head  was 
high.  At  the  church  door  he  flung  his  crooked 
stick  across  the  hedge. 

Then  the  priests  set  lights  about  the  church. 
But  the  Madonna  stood  silent  in  the  glare  nor 
could  any  eye  catch  another  nod. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    GOSSIP    OF    THE    TREES 

IT  was  a  mad  Sarto  that  trod  the  hill  from  his 
meeting  with  Mademoiselle.  Aforetime  had 
my  head  spun  with  the  love  of  a  woman,  but  here 
was  a  difference.  I  trod  on  air  and  laughed  at 
the  sunlight  and  the  spring.  Children  romped 
on  the  street.  Old  women  crooned  at  the  win 
dows.  I  had  heard  the  tunes  before,  but  had 
guessed  not  the  happy  lilt  that  lay  within.  All 
tunes  scratch  on  an  ugly  mood,  but  put  yourself 
in  gladness  and,  God's  Peace,  it  is  a  smiling 
world.  This  is  a  puzzle  for  those  not  deep  in 
metaphysics. 

I  directed  my  steps  toward  the  Gray  Moon.  It 
was  my  intention  to  pack  my  poor  belongings  and 
to  furbish  me  a  bit,  before  riding  back  to  Made 
moiselle. 

Two  hundred  paces  from  the  inn,  Michel 
thrust  out  his  face  from  a  drinking  shop.  He 
was  far  gone  with  news,  and  in  pain  for  delivery. 
"Master,"  he  stammered,  "as  God's  above!" — 
and  other  oaths  not  to  the  purpose. 

258 


The  Gossip  of  the  Trees  259 

"Bide  a  bit,  Michel!"  I  cried.  "Hold  off! 
Breathe  awhile !  Tell  the  matter  slowly !" 

"Master,"  he  said,  "an  half  hour  since  Tristan 
called  for  you." 

"  Tristan,  Michel?     And  where  is  he  now1?" 

"Gone."  But  Michel  wore  a  sly  look.  "I 
think,  Master,  that  he  will  return." 

"It 's  likely,"  I  replied.  "But  we  leave  Loches 
to-night." 

"It 's  none  too  soon,  Master."  Then  roguishly: 
"Does  Mademoiselle  go  with  us*?"  For  the  var- 
let  plays  on  my  good  nature. 

I  curled  him  for  his  insolence,  and  packed  my 
wallet.  Outside  my  window  stood  the  towers  of 
Loches.  I  was  the  brave  mouse  that  had  nested 
in  a  cat's  ear. 

A  lover's  day  is  long.  I  sat  in  the  back  room 
of  the  wineshop  near  my  inn,  yet  I  drained  but  a 
cup  or  two.  It  was  a  month  before  the  close  of 
afternoon.  Joshua,  methinks,  was  tampering 
again.  The  sun  was  stopped.  At  last  I  called 
Michel. 

"Go  to  the  inn,"  I  said,  "and  bring  out  three 
horses.  Pay  the  reckoning,  and  on  any  question 
say,  as  if  unwillingly,  that  we  journey  up  to 
Paris.  Spread  the  lie  around  the  stable." 


260  Luca  Sarto 

Michel  returned  in  half  an  hour.  And  now  it 
came  to  me  that  for  Mademoiselle's  safety  as  well 
as  my  own,  I  must  not  show  myself  at  the  castle 
again.  Tristan,  the  headsman,  would  be  waiting 
for  me. 

I  wrote  a  message.  "Take  this,  Michel,  to 
Mademoiselle.  She  will  be  waiting.  Then 
bring  her  to  me.  I  shall  await  you  on  the 
bridge." 

We  parted  at  the  turn.  Michel  rode  to  the 
castle,  and  I  to  the  bridge. 

As  there  might  be  an  hour  to  wait,  I  led  my 
horse  down  to  the  water  below  the  bridge  and 
tied  him  where  he  could  not  be  seen. 

I  had  been  sitting  for  a  half  hour,  my  thoughts 
on  Mademoiselle  and  how  marvelously  things  had 
chanced,  when  there  was  a  great  rattling  over 
head.  I  leaped  to  my  feet,  but  the  sound  ceased 
suddenly,  although  dust  filtered  through  the 
planking  of  the  bridge.  "Whoever  they  are,"  I 
thought,  "they  travel  in  haste."  I  peered  from 
under  the  bridge  down  the  road.  Although  the 
dust  was  thick,  there  were  at  least  six  horsemen. 
"King's  men—  I  thought;  "archers,  by  their 
dress."  They  cantered  sharply  in  the  direction 
of  Montrichard  and  were  soon  out  of  view.  "I 


The  Gossip   of  the  Trees  261 

know  not,"  I  muttered,  "the  errand  of  these  fel 
lows,  but  we  must  journey  softly  for  fear  of  their 
return." 

Then  I  fretted  for  the  coming  of  Mademoiselle, 
for  the  afternoon  was  wearing  on.  It  was  already 
dusk  when  at  last  she  came,  and  with  her  was 
Michel. 

I  mounted  and  rode  beside  her.  "At  last, 
Diane,"  I  said,  "we  start  upon  our  journey." 

"May  the  Virgin  help  us  on  our  way,"  she 
answered. 

"As  for  yonder  gray  towers,"  I  continued,  "I 
shall  live  the  happier  if  I  never  see  them  again." 

Mademoiselle  looked  across  her  shoulder  at  the 
sullen  mass  which  even  at  this  distance  rose  above 
the  trees,  and  she  shuddered.  "Let  us  hasten, 
Luca  Sarto!  We  cannot  be  safe  until  we  have 
put  half  of  France  between  us  and  Louis's 
dungeons." 

She  quickened  her  pace  to  a  lively  trot.  As  for 
the  King's  troopers  who  rode  ahead  I  said  not  a 
word,  but  kept  a  sharp  lookout  in  the  dusk. 

I  '11  keep  silent  how  the  twilight  fell  upon  the 
world.  Your  hunger  is  for  speed  and  action. 
Events  must  stir  and  whirl.  The  sober  history 
of  Luca  Sarto  must  be  gulped  as  if  it  were  an  idle 


262  Luca  Sarto 

tale.  To  spoon  it  out  with  fit  description  and  so 
catch  the  nicer  flavor  is  too  slow  a  feeding  for  your 
impatience.  I  've  marked  the  eye  of  one  who 
thus  races  through  a  book,  and  I  've  seen  his  eager 
fingers  twitching  with  the  pages.  I  '11  set  forth, 
therefore,  a  lean  and  meager  history. 

The  sun  went  through  his  western  door  and 
left  twilight  on  the  earth.  And  long  shadows 
stretched  across  the  fields  to  claim  them  for  the 
greedy  realm  of  night.  And  darkness  came,  and 
God  hung  out  his  lamps — Vega  in  the  east,  the 
Plowman  to  the  north,  and  Bootes  the  Huntsman 
with  his  fiery  dogs  in  leash.  But  Diane  rode 
silent  by  my  side. 

Darkness  came.  A  wind  arose,  and  out  of  the 
darkness  came  the  gossip  of  the  woods.  But  al 
though  within  the  castle  walls  talk  now  ran  upon 
the  Virgin's  nod,  this  great  wonder  was  not  known 
as  yet  to  beech  and  oak,  or  they  had  trafficked  of 
it  in  the  wind.  Therefore  we  were  ignorant  of 
the  rummage  and  excitement  on  the  hill. 

But  beech  and  oak  knew  that  I  loved  Diane, 
and  of  this  they  gossiped  across  the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HERE    ARE    TWO    MEN    DEAD 

IN  a  half  hour  we  crossed  a  stone  bridge  where 
frogs  croaked,  and  we  saw  before  us  the  dim 
outlines  of  a  farmhouse.  "Diane,"  I  said,  "we 
have  come  upon  your  brother's  hiding.  Wait  here 
in  the  shelter  of  this  courtyard,  while  I  poke  about." 

I  knocked  upon  the  door.  There  was  no 
response. 

I  knocked  again  more  loudly.  It  was  a  sound 
to  set  the  echoes  prattling,  and  yet  the  building 
seemed  deserted.  So  I  put  my  shoulder  to  the 
door  and  forced  it  open.  I  groped  'n  with  my 
hands  before  my  face.  I  called  softly.  There 
was  no  reply. 

The  room  was  empty.  On  the  floor  was  a  pile 
of  bed-clothes  in  disorder.  I  was  about  to  re 
turn  to  Diane  and  tell  her  that  we  must  await  her 
brother's  coming,  when  I  observed  that  a  chair 
was  overturned  and  that  a  basin  had  fallen  to  the 
floor.  The  floor  was  freshly  wet.  "Jacques  is 
clumsy,"  I  thought.  I  bent  over  the  bed-clothes. 

263 


264  Luca  Sarto 

There  were  marks  of  muddy  boots  upon  the 
blankets.  "Has  there  been  a  scuffle?"  I  thought. 
"Is  it  possible  that  the  King's  troopers  have  been 
here1?  Is  Jacques  taken?  The  lantern  is  lighted. 
These  things,  therefore,  have  happened  since  the 
dusk.  But  if  Jacques  is  taken,  why  did  not  the 
troopers  return  to  Loches?" 

I  went  to  the  window  to  peer  out,  but  a  heavy 
cloth  hung  before  it  as  though  to  conceal  thr 
lighted  room  from  the  courtyard.  I  called 
Jacques's  name,  then  I  stood  perplexed. 

I  was  startled  by  a  step  behind  me.  I  whirled 
about.  But  it  was  Diane  in  the  doorway.  "And 
what  has  chanced!"  she  cried,  shaking  with  ex 
citement. 

I  did  not  reply.  If  you  smell  a  danger,  prop 
erly  its  concernment  is  your  nose.  It 's  best  not  to 
lay  it  on  the  tongue  at  first.  If  there  was  matter 
for  alarm,  it  were  well  to  have  no  swooning  lady 
at  the  start.  I  put  Diane  off  without  naming  the 
suspicions  that  I  felt,  and  committing  her  to 
silence  I  left  the  room. 

Our  horses  were  as  we  had  left  them.  A  dark 
shadow  on  the  road  was  Michel.  I  listened. 
There  was  no  sound  from  the  stables.  And  then : 
"I  am  mistaken,"  I  thought.  "There  is  a  sound." 


Here  Are  Two  Men  Dead          265 

At  first  I  could  not  give  it  form.  It  was  a  grind 
ing  sound,  as  though  a  soft  fabric  were  being  torn 
to  shreds. 

It  came  from  the  stables.  I  crossed  a  littered 
yard,  and  came  close  under  the  square  window 
of  a  horse's  stall.  Then  I  laughed.  Such  fools 
do  night  and  shadows  make  of  us.  The  sound 
was  a  horse  feeding  within.  I  thrust  my  hand 
inside  the  opening.  A  horse  put  his  nose  into  my 
palm,  and  one  other  horse  at  least  rubbed  against 
the  first  to  come  near. 

"Motier  is  well  supplied,"  I  thought.  "He 
has  two  or  three  horses." 

So  Motier  was  afoot.  If  not  taken  by  these 
troopers,  he  could  not  be  far  away.  I  returned  to 
the  house. 

Diane,  with  lamp  in  land,  was  examining  my 
discoveries  with  nearer  light. 

''What  do  you  make  of  it,  Diane?"  I  asked. 

She  pointed  to  the  heel  marks  on  the  blankets. 
"Jacques  is  taken,"  she  said. 

"It  is  not  so,  Diane.  While  I  waited  for  you 
beneath  the  bridge,  troopers  went  out  of  Loches. 
But  they  went  not  back.  If  they  had  captured 
Jacques,  we  would  have  seen  them  as  they  re 
turned.  See,  Diane,  how  the  blankets  are  thrown 


266  Luca  Sarto 

to  a  corner  of  the  room !  These  are  the  marks  of 
search,  not  of  a  scuffle.  It 's  sure  that  Jacques 
heard  them  coming  in  time  to  hide.  They  tossed 
his  blankets  to  find  what  he  left  behind." 

"And  where  is  Jacques  now?" 

"I  know  not,  Diane.  Yet  I  think  that  he  is 
near  at  hand.  Look  how  he  has  left  a  hanging  at 
the  window  so  that  his  light  might  not  show  to 
the  road.  If  he  be  outside,  we  '11  show  him  who 
his  visitors  are." 

I  set  the  light  in  the  center  of  the  room  and 
pulled  off  the  hanging  from  the  window.  "Come 
forward  in  the  light,  Diane,  so  that  you  show  to 
the  road." 

It  was  but  a  moment  before  a  face  rose  up 
against  the  glass.  Diane  cried  out,  "Jacques,  my 
brother!" 

Jacques  raised  a  stone  and  smashed  the  glass. 
It  was  good  pot  glass,  such  as  the  glaziers  had 
used  at  Chartres. 

"Ha,  Diane,  my  dear,"  Jacques  cried,  and  he 
took  her  in  his  arms.  Then  he  stood  off. 
"Villainy  's  a-foot,"  he  said.  "The  rascals  have 
the  measure  of  us.  Here  was  I  sitting  with  an 
ear  on  the  road  for  your  coming.  Three  times, 
when  it  was  dark,  I  went  to  look.  It  was  on  this 


Here  Are  Two  Men  Dead          267 

last  time  that  I  heard  the  sound  of  horses.  Does 
Diane  travel  in  such  company*?  I  thought.  Dis 
trusting  it,  I  crawled  beneath  a  hedge.  At  the 
bridge  that  is  just  below,  the  company  halted,  and 
I  heard  voices  bickering.  Then  they  came  for 
ward  toward  this  house,  but  monstrously  quietly. 
And  mark  you,  Tristan  was  one  of  them.  I 
would  know  the  man  anywhere,  except  in  heaven. 
Four  and  four  they  went  into  the  courtyard,  and 
no  owl's  look  could  I  get  of  them  further.  And 
by  Crispin,  I  was  as  cramped  under  the  hedge  as  a 
tailor,  but  I  durst  not  show  my  head.  Yet  I 
know  not  how  the  rogues  came  on  the  place  of  my 
hiding." 

"Jacques  Motier!"  I  broke  in,  "you  had  best  be 
short.  We  are  close  beset." 

Motier  did  not  heed  the  interruption.  "Then 
the  villains  came  out,"  he  continued.  "Tristan 
was  in  front  and  passed  so  near  that  I  could  have 
tripped  him.  He  was  snarling  to  those  behind  for 
their  clatter  on  the  bridge.  At  that  he  spied  a 
light  in  a  building  farther  up  the  road.  'So,  so,' 
he  said,  'we  may  have  been  mistaken  in  the  place.' 
Up  they  mounted  and  rode  off,  Tristan  hushing 
them.  But  I  followed  until  they  were  safely 
off." 


268  Luca  Sarto 

I  listened  with  impatience.  \Ye  were  beset 
with  danger  as  long  as  Tristan  and  his  men  were 
on  the  roads.  So  I  cut  him  short.  "Jacques," 
I  said,  "ease  your  tongue!  Tristan  will  be  back 
on  us.  We  must  hurry.  Have  you  horses?" 

"One,"  said  Jacques. 

"One?"  I  knew  that  there  were  two  horses  at 
least  in  the  stable.  "Then  who  owns  the  other, 
Jacques?"  I  cried.  "How  many  men  came  rid 
ing  with  Tristan?" 

"Eight,  four  and  four." 

"And  how  many  rode  away?" 

"God!"  he  cried,  "six!" 

We  were  on  our  feet  in  an  instant. 

"Hold  up!"  I  said.  "We'll  post  Michel  in 
front  to  warn  us  if  Tristan  returns.  Then  we 
will  smell  out  these  two  fellows  that  he  left." 

We  found  Michel  as  we  had  left  him.  There 
were  no  sounds  upon  the  road.  "Sarto,"  said 
Jacques,  "behind  the  stable  there  is  a  lane  that 
leads  across  the  fields  and  out  on  the  road  beyond. 
Tie  our  horses  there,  against  the  chance  that 
Tristan  cuts  us  off  in  front." 

We  brought  out  Jacques's  horse  and  left  him 
with  the  others.  And  now  I  laughed  aloud. 
"It 's  two  against  two,  you  rascals.  Or  if  there 


Here  Are  Two  Men  Dead  269 

are  three  of  you,  let  one  run  off  and  bellow  for  a 
coffin  maker.  Come  out,  you  pups !" 

I  drew  my  sword,  a  light  thrusting  weapon.  In 
my  left  hand  I  carried  a  dagger,  for  I  fight  as  an 
Italian. 

Then  we  came  from  the  stable.  In  the  door 
way  of  the  house  stood  Diane,  holding  a  lantern 
high  above  her  head  so  that  it  threw  shadows  to 
the  corners  of  the  yard.  It  was  a  pretty  staging 
for  a  fight.  In  the  lantern's  light  were  two  mov 
ing  forms.  "The  one  to  the  left  is  mine,"  said 
Jacques. 

They  came  forward  bravely.  And  then  I 
could  have  laughed,  for  the  fellow  opposite  me 
carried  an  old-fashioned,  two-handed  sword,  of  a 
kind  my  grandfather  used.  It  was,  however,  of 
the  latest  mode  of  France,  which  lags  somewhat 
in  these  things.  With  such  inequality  there  could 
not  be  a  pretty  bout,  thrust  against  thrust.  Yet 
there  was  some  danger  in  the  heaviness  of  his 
strokes. 

In  shadow  I  waited  his  coming. 

He  held  his  sword  in  both  his  hands,  the  blade 
swung  aloft  above  his  shoulder.  Onward  he  came 
with  a  smashing  blow,  but  I  jumped  aside,  and  he 
struck  fire  upon  the  stones.  "Monsieur,"  I  cried, 


270  Luca  Sarto 

"you  're  clumsy  with  your  cleaver.  You  need 
practice  on  an  ox."  Then  while  he  recovered 
balance,  I  circled  round  him.  And  so  I  brought 
him  to  a  better  light,  for  I  wished  to  look 
him  up  and  down  to  see  what  chance  there  was 
that  he  wore  chain  beneath  his  shift.  If  so,  it 
would  make  a  difference  in  my  fence.  As  for  me, 
I  wore  no  chain. 

Then,  in  a  flash,  I  lunged  on  him.  I  flicked  a 
button  from  his  doublet,  but  could  reach  no 
farther. 

Then  I  struck  him  full  on  the  breast.  He 
reeled,  but  the  chain  below  saved  him.  "Devil 
take  your  smithy's  shirt,"  I  cried,  but  I  kept  him 
wheeling  about,  while  I  contrived  attack. 

And  now  he  was  in  good  anger  that  he  had  not 
felled  me  by  his  heavy  strokes,  and  he  came  skip 
ping  toward  me.  I  stepped  beneath  an  over 
hanging  gutter,  and  on  this  his  blow  fell.  While 
he  was  still  tottering  from  the  impact,  I  caught 
him  on  the  wrist.  Then  I  pricked  his  ear.  He 
staggered  back,  but  I  drove  against  him  and 
reached  his  throat  above  the  chain.  He  fell 
headlong,  and  I  leaped  on  him  with  my  dagger. 

It  was  ended.  He  gave  a  cry  and  rolled  against 
the  wall.  It  was  a  narrow  river  that  he  crossed 


Here  Are  Two  Men  Dead          271 

and  already  he  was  in  the  shade  beyond,  past  leech 
and  priest. 

Motier's  fight  was  longer  and  more  equal,  for 
both  fought  with  the  heavy  French  swords.  I 
watched  its  clumsy  progress,  until  Motier  with  a 
butcher's  stroke  quite  broke  the  other's  head.  We 
wiped  our  swords  on  the  fellows'  cloaks. 

"And  now,"  said  Jacques,  "we  had  best  be  on 
our  travels.  The  lane  brings  us  to  the  highroad 
to  the  east  of  Tristan.  We  will  come  cranking 
out  beyond  him.  Montrichard  lies  three  miles 
beyond." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    WIND    SHIFTS     UNTIL    IT     BRINGS    THE     RAIN 

AND  now  Michel  came  running.  "Master," 
he  blurted,  "they  are  coming." 

Jacques  snarled  when  he  heard  it.  "The  lane 
is  our  only  chance,"  he  said. 

Beyond  the  out-buildings  the  lane  was  exposed 
to  the  road,  which  lay  parallel  to  us.  Jacques 
drew  rein  and  turned  to  me.  "Shall  we  make  the 
hazard?"  I  nodded.  We  were  half  way  across 
the  open  bit,  when  there  were  shouts  from  the 
road. 

We  had  been  mincing  until  the  moment.  Now 
we  spurred  up.  Presently  the  lane  skirted  a  hill 
that  was  covered  with  woods.  On  a  sudden 
Jacques  drew  up.  "We  make  too  big  a  clack," 
he  said.  "There  's  more  bounce  than  speed  in  us. 
These  fellows  will  be  on  us  in  a  mile.  We  had 
best  go  through  the  woods." 

"And  where  will  it  lead  us?"  I  asked. 

"Not     to    Louis's     dungeon,"     he     answered. 

"Otherwise  I  know  not.     But  we  '11  contrive  to 

272 


Wind  Shifts  Until  it  Brings  the  Rain       273 

come  on  the  highroad  near  Montrichard,  with 
Tristan  behind  us." 

We  were  well  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  in  con 
cealment  when  we  heard  horses  gallop  past  on  the 
road  below. 

We  now  proceeded  with  caution  for  perhaps  a 
mile,  easy  going  for  the  most  part,  as  we  came  on 
a  forest  path.  Then,  at  the  foot  of  a  decline,  we 
saw  a  smudge  of  light.  It  was  from  the  fire  of  a 
charcoal  burner.  Jacques  roused  him.  "Per 
haps,"  he  said,  when  the  fellow  had  come  from 
his  hut  and  had  blinked  upon  us,  "perhaps,  you 
can  put  us  on  the  road  to  Montrichard." 

"The  path  goes  there,"  the  fellow  grunted. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  came  again  upon  the 
highroad.  In  the  distance  we  saw  the  outlines 
of  the  castle  of  Montrichard  and  below  the  lights 
of  the  town.  Jacques  was  in  high  glee.  "Tristan 
is  behind  us,"  he  said.  "We  have  traveled  on  a 
wider  circuit,  and  have  come  out  beyond  him." 

"Hold  a  bit!"  I  said.  "It's  an  even  guess. 
The  villains  were  riding  fast.  Tristan  may  have 
gone  forward  instead  of  back.  Where  there  is  a 
village,  there  is  drink.  In  his  discontent,  he  has 
gone  on  to  a  tavern.  His  gullet  is  his  com 
pass." 


274  Luca  Sarto 

"No,"  said  Jacques,  "he  'd  think  he  'd  been  mis 
taken  in  our  shadows.  It  was  one  man  he  came  to 
get.  The  four  shadows  must  have  bothered  him. 
When  he  came  to  the  highroad  without  sight  of 
us,  he  decided  that  he  was  mistaken.  He  went 
back  to  the  farmhouse  for  another  rummage. 
And  so  we  '11  go  on,"  was  how  he  ended. 

But  I  took  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Peace,  you 
fool!"  I  cried.  "Let  me  talk!  I'll  go  forward 
with  Michel.  You  and  Diane  hide  here.  When 
we  learn  that  Tristan  is  surely  behind  us,  then  we 
can  go  forward  safely." 

Jacques  grumbled,  but  Diane  hushed  him. 

She  and  Jacques  hid,  and  Michel  and  I  went 
on  with  caution. 

It  was  scarcely  bedtime  and  a  few  of  the  vil 
lagers  were  still  awake.  I  called  to  one  of  them. 
"Is  there  an  inn  hereabouts?" 

"Henri,  down  the  road,"  he  answered,  "can 
give  you  a  bite  and  a  bed." 

We  came  upon  the  inn.     A  light  flared  out. 

"I  '11  first  squint  in  the  windows,"  I  said. 
"Wait  here,  Michel,  and  hold  my  horse!" 

I  peered  through  the  shutters.  Two  sleepy 
countrymen  sat  nodding  on  their  cups.  There 
were  no  dirty  cups  or  slop  upon  the  other  tables. 


Wind  Shifts  Until  it  Brings  the  Rain      275 

Tristan    and    his    fellows    had    not    been    here. 

"Tapster,"  I  said,  "a  cup  of  wine !" 

He  drew  it  and  put  it  before  me.  "There  's 
nothing  much  to-night  in  the  way  of  business,"  I 
began. 

He  was  a  most  unsocial  fellow,  and  he  only 
grunted. 

"And  yet,"  I  continued,  "the  King  has  come  to 
Loches.  Monsieur  Tristan  of  the  Court  and  a 
band  of  merry  fellows  are  on  the  roads  to-night. 
If  they  knew  the  merit  of  this  wine,  they  would 
have  paid  you  a  visit."  I  turned  to  the  nodding 
countrymen.  "Fresh  cups  for  these  good  men," 
I  added. 

They  wakened,  for  a  thirst  has  ears.  "Tris 
tan,"  said  one  of  them,  "went  by  a  good  half  hour 
since." 

"So,"  I  asked,  "and  which  way  was  he  going*?" 

The  fellow  jerked  his  thumb  to  the  east. 

On  a  sudden  I  saw  Michel  waving  at  me 
through  the  window.  "Eh,"  I  said,  "perhaps  I 
hear  him  coming  now." 

I  went  to  the  door.  Michel  drew  me  to  the 
shadow,  where  he  had  already  led  our  horses. 
There  was  a  sudden  clatter,  and  the  horsemen 
passed,  toward  Loches. 


276  Luca  Sarto 

And  now,  if  Jacques  had  kept  to  his  hedge, 
Tristan  would  have  galloped  by.  But,  mark  the 
dunce!  Despite  Diane's  protest  Jacques  had 
come  out  to  spy  about. 

The  end  came  quickly,  and  I  was  too  far 
off  to  be  of  any  use.  I  spurred  my  horse  and 
bawled  abuse  upon  the  villains,  but  was  too  late. 
Jacques  was  taken.  D/#,  such  is  ill  luck!  Had 
I  been  by,  things  would  have  happened  dif 
ferently.  I  've  pepper  in  me.  I  would  have 
taken  heavy  toll.  I  would  have  killed  five  of  the 
varlets  at  least.  If  Jacques  had  had  the  brains  of 
a  louse  he  would  have  kept  to  his  hedge. 

So  Jacques  was  taken.  Already  the  horsemen 
were  off  a  quarter  mile.  Diane,  it  seems,  had 
begged  Tristan  to  take  her  also.  But  he  had 
thrust  her  off.  She  now  sat  beside  the  road, 
swaying  back  and  forward  in  despair.  I  touched 
her  arm,  but  had  no  speech  for  such  calamity.  I 
carried  her  to  her  horse  and  set  her  on.  "There  's 
hope  yet,"  I  said.  "Sicker  cats  get  well." 

"Blessed  Mary,"  she  said,  and  fell  to  praying. 

"Where  now,  Diane  *?"  I  asked. 

She  pointed  back  to  Loches. 

"Our  freedom  lies  the  other  way,  dear  lady,"  I 
said. 


Wind  Shifts  Until  it  Brings  the  Rain      277 

But  she  was  firm. 

It  was  a  doleful  piece  of  road  to  Loches.  As 
we  entered  the  town  we  heard  a  soldier  bawling 
the  news  that  Jacques  was  captured. 

So  now  you  see  that  not  all  toothsome  is  my 
tale.  Grief  and  stain  of  blood  have  part  in  it. 
It 's  bitter  for  me  to  write  down  such  a  melan 
choly  end.  I  'd  rather  make  blythe  tunes  for 
jigs.  Yet  there  is  due  a  straight  sequence  of 
these  affairs.  Sarto  is  valiant,  but  he  cannot  fight 
when  his  enemies  are  a  good  mile  off. 

The  soldiers  bawling  the  news  had  brought  to 
their  doors  all  the  village  folk.  They  piled  out, 
buttoning  as  they  came,  with  chatter  like  monkeys. 
Children,  too,  there  were,  unsmocked  for  the 
night,  their  bareness  popping  from  their  shifts. 
One  would  have  thought  that  the  players  had 
come,  or  that  performing  bears  were  in  the  town. 

We  plodded  up  the  hill  and  entered  the  castle 
by  the  nearest  gate.  Here  I  dismissed  Michel. 
At  an  inner  door,  Marie,  the  tirewoman,  was 
awaiting  Diane,  half  dressed.  She  was  hysteri 
cal  and  crying,  for  she  had  heard  the  news.  The 
two  women  departed  together,  and  I  was  left  on 
the  stairs. 

I  am  not  easily  cast  down,  for  a  buoyant  nature 


278  Luca  Sarto 

is  in  me.  And  yet  I  was  depressed.  The  night 
had  fallen  to  such  calamity,  and  only  two  men 
were  dead  to  pay  the  price.  The  Lady  Diane's 
tears  had  been  purchased  at  too  low  a  rate.  Fate 
had  played  the  Jew  with  me. 

I  stood  thus,  undecisive,  and  flicked  the  cob 
webs  with  my  sword.  What  was  there  to  do, 
worthy  the  name  of  action,  and  of  what  accom 
plishment'?  Though  I  pondered  deeply,  no  plan 
of  force  or  guile  came  to  my  brain,  and  my  only 
havoc  was  with  the  cobwebs. 

For  a  long  time  I  might  have  lingered,  had  I 
not  heard  footsteps  on  the  circular  steps  above  me. 
The  sound  was  soft  and  even,  and  came  winding 
toward  me. 

It  was  an  ill-shaped  figure  and  malignant  face 
that  came  into  view.  Its  expression  was  un 
changed  at  seeing  me.  It  was  as  though  the  man 
had  expected  my  coming  and  had  waited  for  me. 
It  was  Tristan,  the  headsman.  The  strands  had 
met. 

There  is  a  French  proverb:  The  wind  shifts 
until  it  brings  the  rain. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    DICE    STILL    FALL   TO   THE    DEUCE    SPOTS 

IF  you  have  thought  that  Diane  succumbed  to 
defeat,  you  '11  see  how  grievously  you 
reckoned. 

When  she  had  left  me  on  the  stairs  and  the 
door  was  shut,  first  she  hushed  Marie,  for  the 
wench  was  sobbing.  "Marie,"  she  said,  "you 
make  a  bad  matter  worse." 

Marie  staunched  her  tears  upon  her  skirt. 

"You  saw  my  brother  brought  to  Leches'?" 

"Ay,  dear  lady,  so  I  did."  The  waters  rose 
again,  but  she  sluiced  them  on  her  kerchief. 

"And  where  did  they  take  him?" 

Marie  pointed  through  the  window.  "There 
was  gossip  that  they  would  put  him  in  the  dun 
geons.  Jean  told  me,  who  was  on  the  street 
when  they  came." 

"Jean?" 

"Jean  is  betrothed  to  me.  He  is  in  the  King's 
guard." 

"Oh,  I  remember  the  man.     Did  the  King  see 

my  brother  brought  in*?" 

279 


280  Luca  Sarto 

"Ay.  The  King  was  above,  at  a  window,  as 
they  passed;  for  Jean  saw  him.  Tristan  waved 
his  cap  to  the  King  as  they  went  below. 

"Perhaps  you  know  where  the  King  is  now." 

"No." 

"Is  it  likely  that  he  is  with  the  Queen?" 

Marie  shook  her  head.  "I  do  not  know,  Made 
moiselle." 

Diane  sat  down  upon  a  stool  and  clasped  her 
knees.  "Hold  yourself  quiet,  Marie!  I  must 
think  upon  the  tangle."  It  was  a  few  moments 
before  she  spoke,  then  half  to  herself.  "My 
only  chance  lies  with  the  King.  It 's  him  I  must 
prevail  on."  She  arose  from  the  stool.  "I  must 
seek  the  King." 

"To-night?     Now?" 

"Now.     On  the  instant." 

"Shall  I  come  with  you,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Please  you,  no.  You  '11  wait  here  for  my 
return." 

Diane  cloaked  herself.  She  turned  upon  the 
sill.  "Hold  up  your  chin,  Marie!  The  night's 
not  done." 

The  wench  sat  with  her  mouth  open. 

Diane  left  her  so.  And  first  she  looked  to  see 
whether  I  was  still  upon  the  landing.  But  I  was 


The  Dice  Still  Fall  to  the  Deuce  Spots     281 

gone.  Then  with  a  quick  step  she  went  down  the 
stairs  and  into  the  garden.  The  King's  palace  lay 
but  a  hundred  paces  off.  A  sentry  stood  at  the 
door. 

Diane  came  before  him.  "Do  you  know  me," 
she  asked. 

"You  are  Mademoiselle  Diane." 

"I  've  business  with  the  King." 

The  fellow  scratched  his  head.  "But  the  King 
is  not  here,"  he  said. 

"So?" 

"It 's  a  half  hour  since  the  King  went  to  the 
Church  of  the  Madonna  of  Saint  Ours." 

"Methinks  there  is  no  service." 

"Mademoiselle  has  not  heard  the  news'?" 

"Of  what  sort"?" 

'Dear  lady,  they  say  the  Virgin  has  come  this 
night  to  life." 

Diane  crossed  herself.  The  sentry  also, 
Diane  lifted  her  head  first.  "Mary  be  praised!" 
she  said,  but  she  was  amazed. 

The  sentry  mumbled  his  prayers  longer  than 
she.  Then  he  spoke  again :  "It  happened  be 
fore  the  dark.  It  was  a  marvelous  sight.  Queen 
of  Heaven,"  he  muttered,  "save  us  by  thy 
mercy !" 


282  Luca  Sarto 

"Mary  be  praised!"  Diane  repeated.     Then- 
still  in  amazement,   "The  Virgin  lives."     After 
ward  she  addressed  the  sentry,  "So  that  is  why 
the  King  is  in  the  Church." 

"Ay,  it  is." 

"Perhaps  the  Virgin  has  already  wrought  a 
cure  in  him." 

"They  say  she  has,  Mademoiselle.  Those 
that  saw  him  pass  say  that  his  humped  back  was 
straight." 

Diane  passed  on  her  way,  but  she  was  deep  in 
thought. 

It  was  another  hundred  paces  to  the  door  of  the 
church.  A  priest  was  cooling  himself  upon  the 
steps.  "Father,"  said  Diane,  "is  the  King 
within?" 

"The  King  prays  in  his  oratory  in  the  crypt." 

"Will  you  take  me  to  him?" 

The  priest  held  up  his  hand.  "It  is  forbade," 
he  said.  "The  King  gives  his  thanks  to  God." 

But  as  he  made  no  move  to  hinder  her,  she 
slipped  by  him  into  the  church.  She  came  into  the 
transept,  which  was  dark  except  for  a  blur  of 
light  from  the  crossing.  She  stumbled  against 
some  stools  and  benches,  then  fumbled  her  way 
toward  the  light.  Half  way  up  the  choir  was  the 


The  Dice  Still  Fall  to  the  Deuce  Spots     283 

statue  of  the  Madonna.  Candles  were  set  about 
it,  the  soft  light  falling  on  her  blue  garments  and 
on  her  face.  Diane  knelt  for  a  moment  on  the 
stones  in  silent  prayer.  A  priect  was  mending 
the  lights. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "which  door  leads  to  the 
King's  oratory*?" 

He  pointed  to  the  dusk.  "It 's  the  first  along 
the  wall." 

Diane  motioned  with  her  finger.  "Is  that  the 
door?"  she  asked. 

"Ay,  Mademoiselle." 

"To  his  oratory?" 

"Ay,  to  his  oratory — and  to  his  dungeons,  for 
that  matter." 

"To  his  dungeons?" 

"They  say  a  secret  passage  leads  beneath  the 
building." 

He  went  on  about  his  work. 

Diane  found  the  door  in  the  second  bay.  She 
turned  its  handle.  Then  she  rattled  it.  It  was 
fast  locked.  She  turned  back  to  the  priest  for 
help.  By  this  time,  however,  he  had  set  fresh 
candles  in  the  sconces  and  had  gone  off.  She 
heard  the  door  slam  behind  him  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  transept. 


284  Luca  Sarto 

Again  Diane  rattled  the  door  to  the  King's 
crypt.  Then  she  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 
There  was  no  sound.  Nor  any  glimmer  of  light. 
There  was  a  bench  at  hand,  and  Diane  set  herself 
upon  it.  "If  I  but  knew,"  she  thought,  "how 
long  the  King  stays  at  his  prayers." 

At  first  she  was  for  sitting  on  the  bench  before 
the  door  to  await  the  King.  Then  her  thoughts 
went  to  the  Queen,  for  a  dim  hope  lay  there. 
"I  '11  see  the  Queen  first,"  she  thought.  "She  has 
been  my  friend.  The  King  later." 

As  she  passed  near  the  Virgin,  she  crossed  her 
self  and  bowed  her  head  in  prayer.  "Blessed 
Mary,"  she  said,  "I,  also,  need  your  help.  Have 
you  no  cure  for  my  calamities*?"  And  she 
doubled  herself  again  upon  the  pavement.  She 
raised  her  eyes.  The  Virgin  was  stock  fast. 
Diane's  hope  went  down.  "My  prayers  are  not 
as  potent  as  the  King's,"  she  said.  Two  of  the 
candles,  overlooked  by  the  priest,  spluttered  in 
their  sockets  and  went  out. 

At  the  door  of  the  church  Diane  paused.  The 
priest  with  whom  she  had  spoken  first  was  sleeping 
with  his  head  propped  against  the  wall. 

The  sentry  was  still  on  duty  outside  the  palace. 
Diane  accosted  him  and  went  inside.  The 


The  Dice  Still  Fall  to  the  Deuce  Spots     285 

Queen,  she  was  told,  was  settled  for  the  night,  but 
would  see  her. 

Diane  came  beside  her  bed.  "Your  Majesty," 
she  said,  "may  you  have  pity  on  me !" 

The  Queen  lifted  herself  on  her  elbow. 
"Diane,"  she  asked,  "what  ails  you*?"  She  took 
her  hand  and  drew  her  close  until  the  light  fell 
on  her  face. 

"It 's  Jacques,  my  brother." 

"Ay,  Diane,  it 's  so  they  told  me." 

"I  must  see  the  King  to-night." 

"There  's  no  help  there,  my  dear.  The  King 
would  mock  you." 

"Methinks  the  Virgin  may  have  softened  him." 

"You  think  that  the  Virgin's  coming  to  life  may 
have  changed  his  nature*?" 

"It 's  sacrilege  to  doubt  the  Virgin's  power." 

The  Queen  paused  in  thought.  "But  the  King 
is  not  here,  Mademoiselle." 

"They  tell  me,  your  Majesty,  that  he  prays  in 
his  oratory." 

"And  I  tell  you,  Diane,  that  he  has  gone  to  his 
dungeons." 

"Then  I  '11  seek  him  in  his  dungeons." 

The  Queen  shook  her  head.  "It 's  wasted 
effort." 


286  Luca  Sarto 

Then  on  a  sudden  Diane  cried  out:  "It's  to 
night  that  my  prayers  will  avail.  The  King  will 
be  most  marvelously  set  up.  The  Virgin  will  have 
wrought  him  to  a  giving  mood.  By  morning  the 
ecstasy  may  be  off." 

The  Queen  rocked  her  head  in  thought.  "The 
chance  is  slim.  Yet  it  's  blasphemy  to  doubt  the 
Virgin's  power.  Pro])  me  those  pillows  at  my 
back.  Fetch  me  my  writing  desk.  I  '11  write 
you  a  safe-conduct  to  the  dungeons.  May  the 
Holy  Virgin  help  you !" 

She  wrote  for  a  moment.  "See,"  she  said, 
"I  've  written  it  blank  of  names.  It 's  best  that 
the  guard  know  not  who  you  are.  Stay !  You 
cannot  go  alone." 

"My  maid  sits  up  for  me." 

"Then  I  '11  write  the  pass  for  two — but  without 
names." 

"Have  you  a  key,  your  Majesty,  to  the  King's 
passage  from  his  crypt*?" 

"No." 

"It  would  be  the  better  entrance,  and  would 
avoid  the  guardroom." 

The  Queen  thought  for  a  moment.  "A  priest," 
she  said,  "would  have  the  key.  Perhaps  my  pass 
will  persuade  him." 


The  Dice  Still  Fall  to  the  Deuce  Spots     287 

Diane  took  direction  and  a  caution  that  she  go 
veiled  against  the  rudeness  of  the  soldiers.  The 
Queen  then  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  "I  shall 
pray,  Diane,"  she  said,  "that  the  Virgin  may  have 
prevailed  on  Louis." 

Diane  came  off,  clutching  the  pass  in  her  fingers. 

Now  the  building  in  which  Diane  lodged  lay 
along  the  garden.  Her  rooms,  as  I  've  told  you, 
were  in  an  upper  story,  for  the  lowest  story  was 
given  entirely  to  a  great  hall,  with  kitchens  and 
larders  at  the  end.  The  garden  had  been  dark 
when  she  had  crossed  it  but  a  few  minutes  since. 
But  now  rays  of  light  fell  on  it  from  the  windows 
of  the  hall. 

Her  path  took  her  by  the  windows.  The  room 
lay  plainly  in  sight. 

On  a  sudden  she  stopped.  Something  in  the 
room  had  caught  her  eye.  There  was  shrubbery 
here,  and  she  held  back  the  branches  to  see  more 
clearly.  What  she  saw  froze  her. 

She  sought  her  own  room,  running. 

Marie  let  her  in.  Diane  panted  with  fright 
and  hurry. 

"Marie,  you  told  me  that  your  lover  is  a 
guardsman." 

"So  he  is." 


288  Luca  Sarto 

"Methinks,  as  I  came  by,  I  saw  him  in  the  great 
hall  below." 

"So?  It  was  but  a  minute  after  you  left  that  I 
thought  I  heard  his  voice  and  that  of  Tristan." 

"Tristan?"  Mademoiselle  cried  out.  "The 
headsman?" 

"Ay,  and  Monsieur  Sarto's  too.  I  heard  them 
below." 

"Listen,  Marie!  Jean,  your  lover,  stands 
guard  in  the  hall  below." 

"Guard,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Peace,  Marie,  until  I  finish!" 

"As  God  's  in  Heaven,  lady- 
Diane  took  her  by  the  wrist  and  drew  her  to  the 
window.  "Stand  out  there  in  the  darkness  and 
cry  in  distress  to  your  lover  to  come  to  you." 

Marie  stopped  her  whimpering.  "When  shall 
I  do  this,  Mademoiselle?" 

"From  the  path  you  can  see  what  happens  in  the 
great  hall.  When  you  see  me  enter,  count  four 
times  around  your  fingers,  then  cry  out!" 

From  the  drawer  of  her  dressing  table,  Diane 
took  a  small  knife.  She  put  it  in  the  fold  of  her 
skirt.  Then  she  thrust  Marie  before  her  from  the 
room. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  together.     At  the 


The  Dice  Still  Fall  to  the  Deuce  Spots     289 

foot  was  the  door  to  the  garden.     Marie  went  off 
in  the  darkness. 

As  for  Diane,  she  stood  a  bit  before  the  door 
to  the  great  hall,  and  listened  with  her  ear  upon 
the  crack.  Then  she  opened  the  door  and  went 
within. 


T 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HERE    IS    THE    VILLAIN 

HE  wind  had  shifted  until  it  brought  the 
rain.  It  was  Tristan  whom  I  saw  on  the 
stairs. 

Sarto  has  lived  in  Naples  where  villains  breed 
like  maggots  in  a  cheese.  And,  also,  he  has 
roamed  a  bit  in  these  last  ten  years,  and  seen,  all 
about,  a  deal  of  rogues.  And  yet  neither  north 
nor  south  has  he  met  as  dirty  a  piece  of  flesh  as 
this  Tristan. 

He  touched  my  arm  and  pointed  down  the 
steps.  "I  '11  follow  after,  Monsieur,"  he  said. 
He  came  down  three  steps  behind  me,  with  his 
bad  breath  on  my  neck. 

"How  now,  sir,"  I  asked,  when  we  were  on  the 
level. 

"It 's  the  King,"  he  tittered,  "who  sends  to 
honor  you.  He  bids  us  wait  in  the  great  hall." 

I  looked  him  up  and  down.  "The  King  sends 
a  strange  legate.  His  stable  will  go  short." 

Again  Tristan  tittered.  "Monsieur  is  pleas 
ant,"  he  said. 

2QO 


Here  is  the  Villain  291 

We  were  now  come  to  the  great  apartment  on 
the  ground  level.  Through  the  windows  on  one 
side  of  the  room  I  could  see  the  occasional  lights 
of  the  town  of  Loches,  far  below  us.  The  oppo 
site  windows  looked  out  upon  a  garden. 

Tristan  snapped  his  fingers.  Several  guards 
men  thrust  their  heads  inside  the  door.  I 
squared  myself  to  meet  them  and  put  my  hand 
upon  my  sword.  "What  means  this  patch1?"  I 
cried. 

Tristan  waved  the  guardsmen  forward.  Then 
he  fell  to  rubbing  his  hands.  "It  means,  Mon 
sieur,  that  I  arrest  you." 

"You  skunk's  meat,"  I  cried  out.  "Do  you 
think  to  touch  an  artist?" 

"Put  up  your  sword,  Monsieur!  The  odds 
run  against  you." 

For  answer  I  edged  my  back  against  a  corner 
of  the  room.  "Perhaps,  Tristan,"  I  cried,  "you 
will  be  the  one  to  come  and  take  it." 

Tristan  held  off. 

There  were  now  as  many  as  six  guardsmen  in 
the  doorway,  with  a  patter  of  feet  outside  as  more 
came  up.  The  circle  was  closing  in. 

"Tristan,"  I  cried,  "hold  your  army  off!  On 
what  charge  do  you  arrest  me?" 


292  Luca  Sarto 

"Aiding  the  King's  enemies.  It 's  treason, 
Monsieur." 

"Treason?"  I  cried.     "I  am  not  a  Frenchman." 
Tristan  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

<_?<—/ 

"Does  Louis  command  my  arrest?" 

"Ay,  Monsieur." 

"Sarto  will  not  fight  the  whole  French  army." 
I  threw  down  my  sword.  "I  submit.  Take  me 
to  the  King!" 

And  now,  although  I  had  disarmed  myself  and 
had  yielded  to  them,  three  guardsmen  threw  them 
selves  on  me.  I  struggled  to  free  myself,  splut 
tering  at  the  outrage,  but  went  down  under  them. 
Five  of  them  at  least  sat  upon  my  chest,  while  they 
tied  my  legs  with  cord.  Then  they  rolled  me 
over  and  bound  my  hands  behind  my  back.  It 
was  foul  treatment.  At  the  last  they  put  me  in  a 
great  chair,  and  tied  me  in. 

This  disregard  of  ceremony  angered  me  in 
tensely.  The  ill-smelling  clodpoles  had  mussed 
my  lace  cuffs  and  had  put  their  greasy  hands  upon 
my  face.  It  does  not  sort  with  my  humor  to  be 
seized  behind  and  tumbled  about  like  a  perform 
ing  clown — by  a  jack-in-office,  by  a  dunghill 
groom,  by  such  a  pimpled  fellow  as  this  Tristan. 
I  shall  not  tell  what  I  said.  It  smacked  of  the 


Here  is  the  Villain  293 

wharves,  and  pink-and-lily  youth  must  not  read  it. 

Tristan  laughed  at  my  anger.  He  was  a  merry 
fellow.  And  yet  it  was  not  real  laughter.  Tris 
tan  squeaked  his  mirth.  It 's  false  music.  Real 
laughter  wears  wrinkles  on  its  nose  and  comes 
brawling  from  the  mouth.  Tristan's  laughter  was 
sour  as  if  pickled  for  the  winter. 

Tristan  felt  the  knotted  cords  and  inspected  me 
closely.  "You  will  pardon  me,"  he  said  mock 
ingly,  "if  I  am  too  curious.  It 's  a  hobby  of 
mine — a  study  of  my  craft." 

As  he  spoke  he  played  on  my  throat  with  his 
dirty  fingers.  Then  he  held  a  pointed  finger  up 
to  me,  like  a  master  to  his  class.  "There  is  much 
difference  in  necks,"  he  said,  wagging  his  finger 
back  and  forth.  "Yours  is  good;  neither  so  large 
as  to  be  annoying  to  a  headsman — it  frets  me  if 
the  neck  does  not  snap  upon  the  blow — nor  yet 
too  small.  Monsieur,  it  will  be  a  pleasure.  We 
shall  meet  again." 

Tristan  now  marshaled  his  guardsmen  at  the 
door.  One  he  set  to  watch  me,  lest  I  squirm  from 
my  cords.  Then  he  led  the  others  off.  I  heard 
their  steps  die  upon  the  gravel  path. 

The  next  ten  minutes  I  wriggled  at  my  cords. 
But  the  headsman  had  been  cunning  on  the  tying 


294  Luca  Sarto 

of  them,  and  they  did  not  yield.  Then  I  tried  to 
bribe  my  guard.  He  sat  stolid,  nor  could  I  get  a 
word  from  him. 

I  was  puzzling  on  how  I  might  tempt  him, 
when  I  heard  a  sound  from  the  darkness  of  the 
garden.  Looking  closely,  I  saw  Diane — Diane, 
in  the  garden.  Fright  was  on  her  face.  She 
stood  in  the  shrubbery,  in  the  window's  glow,  and 
looked  straight  at  me.  But  she  disappeared  with 
out  a  word. 

Then  ten  minutes  passed,  and  I  heard  footsteps 
in  the  entry.  The  guardsman  heard  it,  too,  and 
he  cocked  his  head  upon  its  side.  "Eh,"  he  said, 
"does  Tristan  return?" 

But  it  was  not  Tristan.  It  was  Diane  who  en 
tered,  anxious  and  with  fear.  She  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

Diane  showed  no  surprise  at  my  confinement. 
She  turned  upon  the  guardsman.  "Jean,"  she 
said,  "Marie  's  gone  off.  I  do  fear  that  mischief  's 
come  to  her. 

The  guardsman  turned  his  eyes  on  Diane,  and 
caught  her  fear. 

And  now,  on  the  instant,  there  was  a  noise  of 
feet  from  the  path  outside.  Then  there  was  a 


Here  is  the  Villain  295 

woman's  cry,  piercing  and  shrill.  Then  a  mo 
ment  stripped  bare  of  sound. 

Diane  had  the  guardsman  by  the  sleeve.  "It 's 
Marie  's  voice!" 

The  guardsman  shook  her  off  and  ran  to  the 
window. 

A  second  cry  came  from  the  darkness.  "Jean, 
Jean ."  The  guardsman  threw  down  his  arquebus 
and  ran  from  the  room,  shouting,  "Marie,  I  'm 
coming." 

I  was  alone  with  Diane. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AT    THE    FOOT    OF    THE    WINDING    STAIRWAY 

S3  it  fell  out  that  Jacques  was  brought  to 
Loches  with  a  clattering  escort.  Men  and 
boys  ran  ahead  of  them  with  lanterns  and 
torches,  shouting  and  calling  the  news,  and  night- 
capped  heads  were  thrust  out  with  brawl  of  ques 
tion.  And  the  King  drew  back  his  window- 
hangings  and  was  amused  by  the  carnival  below 
him.  Then  they  swept  on  to  the  dungeons. 

The  approach  is  a  grove  of  neglected  lime  trees, 
to  a  wooden  door  in  a  stone  wall.  The  great 
keep,  built  years  ago  by  Fulk  the  Red,  is  at  the 
left.  At  the  right  is  the  keeper's  house,  and  be 
yond  is  a  tower  that  is  smaller  than  the  great 
tower,  but  still  ponderous. 

These  towers  resemble  the  mountains  of  ice  that 
move  south  from  the  frozen  seas,  for  the  bulk 
above  the  surface  is  less  than  that  below.  This 
further  tower  holds  the  dungeons  for  political 
prisoners.  Cardinal  Balue  is  below.  Ludovic  is 

to    come    there    later.     As    for    Burgundy    and 

396 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     297 

Guienne,  Louis's  sides  would  have  shaken  with 
mirth  if  he  could  have  lodged  them  there.  Most 
evil  abodes  are  these  dungeons — the  very  thought 
of  them  makes  me  keck — and  so  they  will  be 
until  the  finger  of  Time  shall  have  wrought  cran 
nies  between  their  stones.  In  the  centuries  to 
come  a  wind  will  rise  and  lightning.  And  when 
the  storm  abates,  the  French  will  thank  God  for 
the  crumbled  stones  upon  the  hillsides. 

But  on  the  night  of  May  the  seventeenth,  four 
teen  hundred  and  seventy-one,  the  walls  were 
strong  and  dark  and  sullen. 

Now  the  cavalcade  came  near  and  lanterns  were 
tossed  about.  And  when  the  guardsmen  came  be 
tween  the  lanterns  and  the  walls  their  great 
shadows  out-topped  the  battlements.  The  Magi 
cian,  who  once  escaped  from  the  fisherman's  jug 
in  smoke,  hardly  grew  so  fast. 

Motier  had  been  put  in  irons.  He  dismounted 
stiffly  at  the  door  in  the  wall,  and  thence  he  was 
hurried  to  the  entrance  of  the  smaller  tower,  see 
ing  nothing  as  he  went  except  the  keeper's  little 
daughter  who  stood  upon  the  doorsill  and  munched 
a  piece  of  black  bread,  wondering.  What  dreams 
a  child  must  have,  cradled  there! 

The  first  room  was  a  guardroom  with  troughlike 


298  Luca  Sarto 

bunks.  As  the  crowd  entered,  heads  were  raised 
and  querulous  voices  asked  in  the  devil's  name 
what  the  pother  was  about.  Beyond  was  a  pass 
age,  and  at  its  end  a  circular  flight  of  steps. 
Down  they  went,  Motier  first,  two  guardsmen  fol 
lowing.  One  of  them  held  up  a  lantern.  At  a 
landing  they  passed  a  wooden  door,  studded  with 
nails  and  with  a  wicket. 

"Old  Bailli's  wheezing  again.  It 's  down  on 
his  lungs  at  last.  In  God's  name  why  does  n't  he 
die?"  This  from  one  of  the  guardsmen.  He 
prodded  Motier  with  his  toe.  "Step  a  bit  faster! 
My  supper  's  waiting." 

The  other  guardsman  spat  upon  the  wall.  "Ti 
lump  de  lump  lump!"  he  sang  contentedly. 

They  came  to  another  landing.  The  first 
guardsman  pointed  his  thumb  toward  the  wicket 
in  the  door.  Then  he  smirked.  "It 's  Balue's," 
he  said.  "Mark  what  will  happen !" 

He  put  his  lantern  on  the  floor  and  set  his 
mouth  to  the  opening.  "Yo,  ho !"  he  called. 

There  was  no  sound  in  answer.  The  guards 
man  called  again:  "What  ho,  Master  Balue!" 
Then  he  grinned  like  a  showman  before  he  pulls 
the  curtain,  and  he  put  his  fingers  on  his  lips  lest 
any  one  should  speak  and  spoil  the  comedy. 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     299 

A  moan  came  from  the  wicket.  Presently  an 
old  man's  face  showed  at  the  opening.  The  eyes 
blinked  in  the  light.  The  skin  was  as  white  as 
the  under  side  of  a  mushroom,  and  it  hung  flabby 
on  his  cheeks.  The  voice  left  was  but  a  squeak. 
"Sirs,"  it  said,  "has  my  time  run  out?  Has  the 
King  softened  toward  me?  I  beseech  you  tell  him 
it  was  not.  I  who  betrayed  him  at  Peronne." 

Motier  had  shrunk  back  against  the  wall  at  the 
first  sight  of  the  face,  and  had  turned  his  head. 
His  stomach  sickened. 

The  musical  guardsman  recalled  the  words  of  a 
popular  song.  He  spat  again  and  sang  it.  It 
was  the  song  the  wench  and  I  had  sung  at  Melum. 

"Maitre  Jean  Balue 
A  perdu  la  vue 
De  ses  fiveches  ;  — 

Down  they  went  again.  At  the  third  turn 
they  came  to  the  lowest  level.  One  of  the  guards 
men  put  an  iron  key  in  a  lock  and  pushed  the  door 
open. 

There  was  a  smell  came  out  as  though  Time 
itself  had  died  and  rotted  there.  The  fellow  set 
the  light  upon  the  floor,  and  Motier  looked  about 


300  Luca  Sarto 

him.  It  was  a  bare  stone  room,  four  paces  square. 
The  stones  were  a  bit  green  and  water  dripped 
from  the  vaulting.  In  the  corner  was  a  plank  set 
at  a  slant  for  bed  and  pillow.  There  was  also  a 
wooden  table  and  a  stool.  Of  the  table  one  leg 
had  rotted  and  fallen  off,  so  it  was  crutched 
against  the  wall.  Half  way  up  this  wall  there 
was  a  narrow  window,  buried  in  three  feet  of  stone 
thickness  like  a  fat  man's  eye;  for  the  tower  was 
set  on  the  slant  of  the  hill,  and  a  level  that  was 
far  below  ground  on  the  one  side  was  thus  open 
to  daylight  on  the  other.  Such  was  the  width  of 
the  window,  however,  that  the  light  pinched  itself 
to  wriggle  through. 

So  far,  the  room  was  like  any  other  dungeon. 
Now  mark  a  difference !  At  the  side  farthest  from 
the  entrance  there  was  another  opening.  It  was 
the  width  of  a  stride,  and  was  closely  guarded  by 
iron  bars,  or  rather  by  an  iron  gate,  for  there  were 
hinges.  It  was  black  beyond. 

Motier  pointed  to  this.  The  guardsman 
grinned  but  said  nothing.  Motier  crossed  the 
room  and  squinted  through.  The  darkness  was 
absolute. 

"Where  does  it  lead*?"  he  asked. 


dt  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     301 

The  guardsman  put  the  lantern  and  some  dishes 
on  the  table,  and  wiped  an  iron  spoon  on  his 
stocking.  "It 's  time  for  gruel,"  he  said. 

As  Motier  did  not  come  at  once,  he  became  im 
patient.  "Come!"  he  cried.  "There  will  be 
time  to  look  later.  All  day  to-morrow,  and  next 
year,  with  no  one  to  interrupt." 

He  shook  with  his  own  humor.  Then,  when 
Motier  had  pulled  the  stool  to  the  table  and  had 
seated  himself,  he  slipped  an  iron  ring  over  his 
ankle  and  clasped  it.  To  the  ring  was  attached  a 
chain,  spiked  to  the  stone  floor. 

With  a  tart  good  night,  he  swung  the  door 
closed  behind  him  and  was  gone,  leaving  Motier 
to  eat  his  supper  in  the  darkness. 

Jacques's  nights  had  been  passed  in  cities, 
where  sound  is  always  rising,  or  in  the  fields,  where 
the  air  is  alive  with  the  rustle  of  growing  things, 
of  insects,  or  wind,  or  distant  dogs  barking.  But 
about  him  now  was  silence,  except  for  the  one 
sound  of  dripping  water — at  first  only  a  single 
dripping,  slow  and  regular.  Then  from  the  pass 
age  outside  there  came  an  answering  drip.  Then 
into  this  mesh  of  sound  came  the  echoes,  and  with 
them  strange  fantasies,  rising  and  falling,  and  yet 


302  Luca  Sarto 

always  the  same — the  scurry  of  syncope,  phrases 
from  the  dance — and  then  the  whole  fury  and 
clamor  of  it  fell  to  monotone  and  dirge. 

So,  under  that  hill  of  stone,  there  was  one  who 
crouched  in  terror,  while  the  towers  stood  above 
ragged  in  the  night,  and  the  moon  came  from 
among  the  clouds  and  sent  silver  shadows  across 
the  world.  Alas,  moonlight  shines  upon  a  tomb 
even  while  the  worms  are  at  their  feast  below. 

And  now  I  write  of  a  cat  and  mouse,  and  how 
the  cat  playfully  cuffed  the  mouse  with  a  velvet 
paw. 

After  the  road  had  cleared  of  the  procession,  the 
King  waited  at  the  window  long  enough  to  see 
Diane  and  me  pass.  Then  he  went  by  himself 
and  thanked  the  Blessed  Mary  for  her  benefits. 

And  now  he  went  to  the  church  again.  It  is 
distant  from  the  palace  an  English  arrow's  flight, 
but  from  the  dungeons  the  space  a  bombard  carries. 
As  he  entered,  the  priests  and  acolytes,  with  ex 
citement  sprung  from  the  Virgin's  nod  yet  strong 
upon  them,  were  pattering  all  about,  laying  hands 
on  this  and  that,  finding  pretext  to  be  around  and 
observe  the  issue. 

To  them  the  King  came  and  he  packed  them  on 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     303 

their  ways,  and  paused  until  all  of  them  were 
gone,  both  lean  and  fat,  and  their  excitement  like 
smoke  had  gone  thin  into  the  air  outside. 

But  when  alone,  he  knelt  not  before  the  row  of 
candles,  nor  anywhere. 

The  crypt  door  is  in  the  second  bay.  Beyond 
are  stone  stairs  descending,  with  a  lantern  at  the 
top.  Down  these  steps  the  King  went,  first  fast 
ening  the  door  behind  him  and  rattling  it  to  make 
sure.  He  knew  these  steps,  but  he  held  the  light 
above  his  head  and  reached  out  with  his  hand. 

At  the  bottom  was  his  oratory.  At  one  end  was 
a  daub  of  Saint  Francis,  and  beneath  it  was  a 
shabby  altar.  But  the  King  did  not  go  to  this. 
His  business  was  of  another  kind.  First  he  took 
from  the  folds  of  his  cloak  a  poniard,  and  set  his 
thumb  against  the  point  to  test  its  sharpness.  The 
King  took  down,  also,  a  sword  which  hung  from  a 
peg,  and  flourished  it.  His  wrist,  although  not  as 
limber  as  a  younger  man's,  was  skillful. 

Then  having  pulled  his  garments  about  him,  he 
jerked  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  opened  a  second 
door,  and  passed  from  sight.  "  He  moved  with  the 
stealth  of  a  cat  who  goes  hunting  in  the  night. 

Once  out  of  the  crypt,  the  King  was  in  a  vaulted 
passage,  which  led  at  a  downward  slant  beneath 


304  Luca  Sarto 

the  length  of  the  church.  To  blurt  my  knowledge 
—for  I  know  not  how  to  whet  the  appetite  by 
withholding  sweets — to  blurt  my  knowledge  and 
set  forth  at  once  the  very  cake  of  my  narration,  it 
was  to  the  dungeons  that  this  passage  led,  and  it 
was  with  Motier  that  the  King  had  commerce. 
For  him  the  haste,  the  poniard,  and  the  grin. 

Many  times  before  had  the  King's  shadow 
slipped  along  these  walls  and  vaults,  for  this  un 
derground  approach  appealed  to  his  love  of  the 
grotesque.  He  was  by  instinct  a  masquerader. 
As  a  young  man,  before  his  father,  the  old  King, 
died,  he  frequented  the  low  resorts  of  Rouen  and 
Tours,  in  the  guise  of  a  drunken  reveler,  to  learn 
the  rumors  of  the  city:  or  he  sat  in  the  corner  of  a 
wineshop  and  watched  the  traffic  of  the  place, 
listening  to  the  chatter  that  arose  from  the  cups. 
Or  he  made  himself  a  crony,  passing  for  a  mer 
chant  in  his  gray  fustian  doublet. 

To-night,  however,  he  was  not  a  masquerader. 
He  was  the  King.  He  had  captured  a  man  who 
had  eluded  him  for  years.  Motier  was  in  the 
counsel  of  Charles  of  Burgundy.  He  was  in  com 
munication  with  the  English,  who  had  used  Calais 
aforetime  as  a  spring-board  into  France.  There 
was  much  to  be  learned  from  such  a  man  as  to 


dt  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     305 

when  the  run  and  leap  might  be  expected.  He 
would  see  him  on  the  night  of  his  capture.  It  was 
better  than  a  raree-show — better  certainly  than  an 
evening  bobbing  over  dull  papers  with  the  papal 
legate.  He  struck  his  sword  against  the  solid 
wall,  and  grinned  at  its  strength.  Then  he 
walked  on,  humming  a  song  he  had  heard  once,  a 
humorous  thing  about  a  cat  and  a  mouse. 

"And  I  cuff  your  ear,  and  I  cuff  your  nose. 
Yo  ho,  ding  ding,  hi  diddley  Ohs !" 

There  came  a  massive  door  before  him.  He 
unlocked  it  and  pushed  it  open  and  left  it  so.  A 
rat  ran  under  his  kingly  feet.  It  recalled  a  second 
verse  of  the  song,  and  he  sang  it  with  spirit,  for  a 
fine  humor  was  on  him.  At  the  end  of  each  line 
his  high  cracked  voice  trolled  the  refrain:  "Yo 
ho,  ding  ding,  hi  diddley  Ohs!"  Such  an  ear  has 
this  King,  such  a  voice,  and  such  a  merry  heart — 
when  mischief  's  up. 

He  was  now  below  the  walls  of  his  dungeons, 
and  close  to  the  room  where  Motier  was  impris 
oned.  Then  presently  there  was  an  iron  grating, 
and  he  looked  through.  The  grating  was  that 
which  guarded  Motier's  cell. 

At  the  sound  of  the  footsteps  and  the  glimmer 


306  Luca  Sarto 

of  light,  Motier  had  leaped  to  his  feet.     He  saw 
the  King  looking  between  the  iron  bars. 

The  King  began  drily.  "Good  evening, 
Jacques  Motier!  We  have  not  met  for  several 
years." 

"The  King  of  France!"  Motier  exclaimed. 

"And  of  Burgundy,  too!"  the  King  added. 
"Don't  forget  to  mention  Burgundy,  young  man, 
or  I  shall  be  offended.  Times  have  changed  since 
Philip  died,  my  dearly  beloved  cousin  (as  the 
treaties  say),  who  I  can  only  hope  went  to  heaven. 
And  would  that  his  son  Charks  would  go,  too — 
and  speedily." 

He  unlocked  the  gate  and  entered,  cautiously, 
with  a  measuring  and  careful  eye  to  the  chain  on 
the  prisoner's  ankle,  keeping  beyond  its  length. 

He  put  the  light  on  the  stones,  well  out  of 
Motier's  reach,  then  straightened  himself  with 
grunts,  for  his  regal  back  was  cramped.  The  hand 
that  did  not  nurse  his  back  rested  with  finger  tips 
upon  the  wall.  Below  his  fingers  were  rough 
characters  hacked  in  the  stones.  The  King  felt 
the  unevenness  and  turned,  squinting  on  it. 


"Nessun  maggior  dolore, 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 


Nella   miseria 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     307 

''Dante,"  he  said.  "Dear  me,  I  must  have  had 
an  Italian  locked  in  here.  Sarto's  another,  who 
will  be  down  presently.  What  a  comfort  our 
poets  are!" 

There  was  a  smirk  upon  his  face  as  when  a 
clown  has  done  his  trick.  "Yet  Dante's  rare,"  he 
said.  "Mostwise  my  prisons  are  filled  with  Sun 
day  stuff.  I  've  alleluias  on  these  walls  to  fill  a 
church.  My  dungeons  cry  out  to  God."  There 
was  still  a  grin  upon  his  mouth,  although  he 
crossed  himself  upon  the  word  and  threw  his  eyes 
for  a  moment  upward. 

"If  I  had  known  that  you  were  coming!  Your 
visit  is  unexpected.  It 's  mischance  I  've  no  room 
prepared.  Those  that  overlook  the  garden  are 
taken.  Yet  it  galls  me  to  play  so  poor  a  host. 
Balue,  also,  came  upon  me  so.  But  I  fixed  him 
up  a  cage,  and  there  the  fine  fellow  sings  happily 
all  the  day,  although  they  say  his  teeth  fall  out. 
Humor  my  mood,  Jacques !  I  'm  so  glad  to  see 
you." 

His  mouth  was  a  dirty  channel  to  pass  such  a 
stinking  flood.  Here 's  how  Jacques  answered 
him: 

"You  're  the  same  sly  cat  you  always  were." 

But  Jacques,  although  his  tongue  was  brave, 


308  Luca  Sarto 

was  frightened.  If  he  spoke  with  courage,  it  was 
because  some  former  thoughts  had  left  stinging 
words  convenient  to  his  tongue.  Any  present 
mintage  would  have  had  a  tremor  in  it.  For 
Jacques  had  had  a  sickish  time,  squatting  a  half 
hour  in  the  dark.  And  now  had  come  this  Louis 
like  a  foul  dream  to  plague  him  further. 

Louis  smiled.  "Oh!"  he  said,  "so  Jacques  is 
Louis's  mouse.  I  '11  take  care  to  play  the  part. 
It 's  my  velvet  paw  to-night,  Jacques.  I  but  cuff 
you  with  it.  My  humor  will  be  sterner  in  the 
morning.  Enough  of  this !  It 's  ill  that  the 
Majesty  of  France  should  bandy  words  with  his 
liegeman." 

"Liegeman!"  Jacques'  tone  was  sour. 
"Liegeman!  My  hand  has  been  given  to  Bur 
gundy,  who  is  fellow  to  yourself.  Burgundy  does 
not  doff  to  France." 

This  Jacques,  I  confess,  gets  metal  in  him. 
There  's  Italian  fiber  in  this  fellow.  Mark  how 
he  reviles  the  King! 

"Majesty  of  France !"  he  snarled.  "It 's  soiled 
cloth,  Louis.  You  fit  it  vile." 

But  Louis  was  not  roused.  It  would  appear  he 
liked  the  taunt.  It  was  candied  marchpane  on  his 
tooth. 


dt  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway      309 

"This  Burgundy  that  you  brag  of,  Jacques,  is 
my  cousin.  By  way  of  manners  only,  I  '11  ask  you 
of  his  health.  Yet  if  it  break,  Louis  will  sleep 
as  sound." 

"Burgundy!"  answered  Jacques,  "the  Duke  of 
Burgundy  remembers  how  your  uncle,  Louis  of 
Anjou,  sent  home  his  kinswoman,  Catherine,  and 
vilely  broke  his  betrothal  to  her." 

Louis  smiled.  "My  compliments,"  he  said,  "to 
my  uncle  in  refusing  alliance  with  Jean  sans 
Peur." 

"Alliance!"  Jacques  retorted;   "was  not  your 
father  called  in  derision  'the  King  of  Bourges'- 
King  of  a  muddy  town,  who  dared  not  ride  beyond 
Touraine,  lest  his  enemies  pull  his  nose?" 

There  was  a  pause  as  long  as  a  Pater  Noster, 
then  Jacques  spoke  again. 

"Why  have  you  brought  me  here?  It  will  be 
a  dark  message  that  I  take  back  to  your  cousin 
Charles  of  Burgundy." 

"I  '11  find  another  messenger  to  save  you 
trouble."  Then  with  a  change  of  humor  and 
more  directly:  "They  say  that  Lord  Howard 
and  his  English  sit  at  Dover.  Eh?  What  are 
they  waiting  for?" 

"Does  Louis  name  me  counselor?" 


310  Luca  Sarto 

"Burgundy  is  to  raise  an  army.  That  cousin  of 
mine,  Jacques,  asking  your  pardon,  is  a  fool.  If 
the  English  wait  on  him,  they  '11  sit  at  Dover  until 
the  spring.  The  English  are  hard  of  learning. 
He  '11  keep  a  trollop's  faith  with  them.  I  '11  pass 
these  things.  They  concern  you  only  a  very  little. 
My  guests  hear  slight  rummage  from  the  world 
outside.  It 's  a  sweet  cloister  I  've  set  you  in. 

"Gruel*?"  Louis  had  noticed  the  dishes. 
"What  a  flavor!  Blessed  Madonna,  I  love  a  car 
rot.  We  '11  pamper  you.  If  your  teeth  last, 
we  '11  have  you  fat.  Balue's,  most  unconsiderate, 
fell  out.  And  we  '11  have  no  questions  asked 
until  to-morrow.  My  curiosity  must  wait  on 
your  digestion.  I  've  playthings  in  a  room  above. 
The  best  playtime  is  in  the  morning.  We  '11  have 
the  pretty  playthings  out  to-morrow.  Good 
night  and  sweet  dreams!" 

The  King  took  up  the  light.  He  was  so  game 
some  that  his  back  forgot  to  ache.  Then  he 
paused.  Something  outside  had  struck  his  ear. 

"I  came  down  to-night  to  press  matters  a  little, 
Jacques.  No  matter.  I  've  changed  my  mind. 
To-morrow  will  do.  You  '11  tell  me  what  I  want 
when  I  get  the  playthings  out." 


At  the  Foot  of  the  Winding  Stairway     311 

Again  he  paused  and  cocked  his  head,  with  a 
step  nearer  to  the  door. 

"You  '11  like  this  room  in  the  morning,  Jacques. 
If  the  day  is  bright,  a  shiver  of  it  sticks  in  the 
window,  although  it  is  not  enough  to  waken  you. 
It 's  snug  for  sleep.  Eh1?  Eh?  What  is  that? 
Did  you  hear  a  sound?" 

A  tenseness  had  come  on  Louis — another  mood 
of  cat. 

Outside  was  a  low  footfall.  Some  one  was  on 
the  circular  stairs,  descending  step  by  step.  Then 
there  was  a  fumbling  with  the  lock — 

I  '11  write  no  more  to-night.  Shall  I  sit  up  till 
dawn,  while  my  head  wags  for  sleep,  just  because 
you  are  curious  who  is  on  the  stairs?  Maybe  it 's 
Tristan,  maybe  it 's  myself,  or  Olivier  le  Daim,  or 
Charles  of  Burgundy,  or  Judas  Iscariot,  or  the 
Pope. 

To-morrow  I  '11  tell  who  it  was.  Snuff  out 
your  candle !  Let 's  go  to  bed ! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

AN    ANSWER    TO    THE    RIDDLE 

THE  guardsman  ran  bawling  from  the  room. 
I  was  alone  with  Diane. 

She  had  followed  to  the  window  and  had 
screened  her  eyes  to  see  into  the  darkness.  Then 
she  ran  to  me.  Kneeling  she  cut  my  cords. 

"Be  quick!"  she  cried.  "It's  all  a  trick.  I 
have  thrown  them  off." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do*?"  I  was  eager 
at  her  words. 

"Do?  Escape — get  away — to  Italy — any 
where." 

"What  of  you,  Diane?     Do  you  come  too?" 

"No.  I  am  safe  here.  The  Queen  protects 
me.  She  will  send  me  with  an  escort  into  Bur 
gundy.  But  enough  evil  for  my  sake  has  come  to 
you.  Drop  through  that  window  !  To  the  town ! 
By  daylight  you  must  be  thirty  miles  off.  Be 
quick!  The  guard  will  return!" 

"I  '11  not  be  thrust  off.  I  have  not  stolen  a 
spoon,"  I  said.  "Think  on  these  things  better. 
We  '11  find  some  contrivance  for  your  brother." 

312 


An  Answer  to  the  Kiddle  313 

Diane  had  taken  me  by  the  arm  to  force  me 
out,  but  I  set  myself  a  post. 

"Have  you  any  plan,  Diane?" 

"Ay,  Sarto,  but  you  have  no  part  in  it." 

"By  God,  young  woman,  you  '11  tell  me  of  your 
plan!  If  there  is  betterment  in  it,  we'll  play  it 
out  together." 

"It  is  my  plan,  Sarto,  to  find  the  King,  to  ask 
for  Jacques's  life.  This  morning  there  would 
have  been  no  hope  in  it,  but  to-night  the  King 
will  be  of  soft  resolution  now  that  the  Virgin  has 
come  to  life.  I  can  win  him  best  alone.  Your 
going  too  would  muddle  it." 

"And  where  will  you  find  the  King?" 

"He  has  gone  to  his  dungeons.  I  shall  follow 
him  there." 

"To-night?" 

"Now.     Before  his  ecstasy  passes." 

"You  could  not  get  to  the  dungeons,  dear  lady. 
The  guards  would  not  admit  you." 

A  look  of  triumph  came  on  Diane's  face.  "I 
have  a  safe-conduct  from  the  Queen." 

"A  safe-conduct.  There 's  thought  in  that. 
Is  it  made  in  your  name?" 

"It 's  blank.  But  you  cannot  serve  me.  Sarto, 
I  beg  that  you  be  off  at  once." 


314  Luca  Sarto 

"Does  the  Queen  know  how  you  would  use  it? 
It 's  rare  that  she  sets  herself  against  the  King." 

"You  waste  your  speech,  Sarto." 

Diane  pulled  upon  my  sleeve  to  force  me  to  the 
window.  I  sat  down  upon  a  stool. 

"I  '11  not  be  packed  off  so,  Diane.  You  had 
best  tell  me  how  I  can  serve  you." 

"Dear  Sarto —  "  she  began,  then  her  voice  broke. 
She  put  her  hands  upon  my  shoulders.  "If  you 
bear  me  any  love,  go!"  she  said.  "Go,  in  the 
name  of  God !" 

I  put  off  her  hands.  "Mademoiselle,"  I  cried, 
"you  waste  our  time  for  action." 

Diane  left  me.  She  stood  with  her  back  turned 
against  me,  and  she  twitched  at  the  coverlet  of  the 
table.  Then  abruptly  she  faced  me.  Her  voice 
was  harsh.  "Be  off,  Sarto,"  she  said,  "I  '11  suffer 
no  further  question.  You  are  a  fool,  Monsieur. 
I  have  tricked  you  to  my  purpose.  Must  a 
woman  speak  more  plainly*?  You  have  been 
dangling  around  me  long  enough.  I  want  none  of 
your  attentions.  I  am  betrothed  elsewhere. 
You  had  best  be  off." 

I  arose  from  my  stool  and  stared  at  her. 

"Betrothed1?"  I  said.     "To  whom?" 


An  Answer  to  the  Riddle  315 

"It  does  not  concern  you,  Monsieur.  My  word 
is  enough." 

"Diane,"  I  said,  "perhaps  I  dream.  Did  you 
tell  me  that  you  are  betrothed?" 

"Ay,  Sarto.  You  had  best  be  off."  But  her 
eyes  fell  before  mine. 

"You  lie,  Diane,"  I  cried.  "You  are  not  be 
trothed." 

I  put  my  fingers  beneath  her  chin  and  held 
up  her  head  to  mine.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
"Sarto 's  your  lover,  Mademoiselle.  The  only 
one  whose  suit  will  prosper.  Do  you  confess  the 
lie?" 

Diane  twisted  from  my  grip.  Then  her  pur 
pose  faltered.  "Ay,  Sarto,"  she  said  reluctantly, 
"it  is  a  lie."  I  had  thought  to  save  your  life." 
Impulsively  she  touched  my  cheek. 

And  now  a  thought  that  had  come  to  me  when 
she  first  mentioned  the  safe-conduct  came  to  me 
again.  There  was  shrewd  contrivance  in  it.  For 
a  few  moments  I  ranged  up  and  down  to  think 
upon  it.  It  was  a  plan  to  bring  off  Motier.  But 
at  what  cost1?  Across  my  brain,  at  this,  there 
came  the  beloved  rumble  of  the  Roman  streets. 
"At  what  cost,"  I  thought.  Then  I  gripped  my 


316  Luca  Sarto 

resolution,  and  with  a  swing  of  arm  waved  off  all 
fear  and  consequence.  "God's  face,"  I  thought, 
"shall  I  be  a  frightened  haggler  when  fate  itself 
has  goods  to  sell?  I  '11  plank  down  the  price  and 
take  my  purchase." 

My  spirits  mounted  and  I  cried  aloud, 
"Diane!"  and  I  strode  forward  upon  her.  "Your 
pass,  Mademoiselle,"  was  all  I  said,  but  I  took  her 
by  the  wrist. 

In  affright  she  held  the  crumpled  bit  of  paper 
and  stretched  her  arm  behind  her  to  guard  it  from 
me.  Her  eyes  met  mine  and  they  searched  them 
deep.  Her  fear  was  gone.  "It  is  I,  Diane,"  I 
said,  "who  am  going  to  find  not  the  King,  but 
Motier.  I  have  a  plan  to  bring  him  off." 

Thus  we  stood — I  a  soldier,  with  my  strong 
arms,  before  this  slight  French  girl.  Quickly  I 
seized  her  left  hand  and  drawing  her  to  me,  until 
her  hair  touched  my  face,  I  slipped  my  hand  along 
her  right  arm.  It  was  bare  and  my  blood  danced 
at  the  touch.  My  hand  met  the  fingers  behind 
her.  These  I  clasped  and  drew  them  back,  one 
by  one,  until  the  paper  fell  to  the  stones.  She 
stood  before  me  and  when  the  paper  fell,  her  fin 
gers  lay  in  mine. 

Then  somewhat  of  Italian  burst  from  my  lips, 


An  Answer  to  the  Riddle  317 

wherein  I  called  her  dearest  and  summoned  hills 
and  sun  for  witness.  "Diane,"  I  said,  "your 
eyes  are  the  only  stars  that  I  need  in  heaven." 
And  much  more  I  said,  but  I  '11  not  write  it  down, 
lest  some  botcher  after  me  translate  my  words 
into  some  kennel  language  like  Dutch  or  English. 
And  did  the  lady  understand  my  Italian  speech4? 
God  pity  her,  she  knew  not  the  language,  but  be 
content,  she  was  a  woman. 

And  time  passed  upon  us  thus,  my  arms  about 
Diane — she  standing  close  for  shelter.  Then  I 
bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and  she  knew  all  that 
was  in  my  heart — this  French  girl,  with  a  light  in 
her  eyes  which  no  one  shall  describe. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  harsh  sound.  Men  were 
moving  in  the  entry  outside.  There  was  a  clatter, 
also,  on  the  stones  along  the  garden,  and  lanterns 
moved  outside  the  windows. 

Now  I  have  said  that  there  were  windows  on 
both  sides  of  the  room.  It  was  to  the  farther 
side  I  turned,  to  the  windows  that  overlooked  the 
town.  There  was,  I  noticed,  a  narrow  ledge  be 
fore  the  wall  pitched  off  dizzily  to  the  town  below. 

There  was  a  sound  of  men  coming  up  the  steps 
from  the  entry,  and  then  a  nearer  sound  at  the 
door.  "This  may  be  the  last  good-by,  Diane. 


318  Luca  Sarto 

May  the  Virgin  keep  you!"  I  drew  her  within 
my  arms  and  kissed  her  lips. 

There  was  a  rattling  at  the  door.  "Quick!" 
she  whispered. 

Already  it  seemed  too  late.  The  doorway  was 
cut  off.  The  windows  to  the  garden  offered  sure 
capture.  But  below  the  windows  that  overlooked 
the  town  there  was  the  narrow  ledge. 

Quietly  I  swung  open  the  window.  Diane  fol 
lowed  close.  "I  pray  for  you,  Luca  Sarto,"  was 
her  only  speech. 

Crouching  on  the  sill,  I  kissed  her  finger-tips, 
her  knees  and  her  skirt  as  it  hung  against  her 
ankles.  And  words  came  hot  for  utterance. 
"Diane,  my  beloved."  Then  I  dropped  to  the 
narrow  ledge. 

And  now  that  I  have  written  it  and  you  've  read 
it,  know  that  it  is  the  truth.  Not  a  word  have  I 
put  down  but  what  was  spoken.  And  much  more 
of  it  I  'd  write,  except  that  you  would  babble  it. 
For  it  would  tease  me  like  a  fuzzy  shift  to  think 
that  my  words  might  be  made  a  common  ballad 
and  sung  upon  the  streets.  Sorry  I  am  to  have 
written  even  this  much,  for  our  converse  was  some 
what  sweet,  and  in  print  too  apt  to  cloy.  When 
I  've  read  others'  scenes  of  love,  either  in  chronicle 


An  Answer  to  the  Riddle  319 

or  sonnet,  I  have  wished  for  Spanish  lemons  to 
squeeze  a  little  sourness  on  the  words.  Yet  it 's 
truth  I  write. 

Once  on  the  ledge,  I  ran  along  it,  thus  keeping 
in  the  building's  shadow.  Momentarily  I  ex 
pected  to  hear  my  pursuers.  They  could  have  cut 
me  off  when  I  came  into  the  open  space  beyond 
the  palace.  But  everything  was  quiet.  It 
seemed  hardly  possible  that  no  one  started  in  pur 
suit;  and  yet  it  was  so,  by  the  cleverness  of  Diane. 

No  sooner  had  I  dropped  from  the  window  than 
Diane  closed  it.  Then  as  the  sounds  thickened  at 
the  door,  she  took  from  the  table  a  Book  of 
Hours.  When  the  guards  were  about  to  break 
through  the  paneling,  she  threw  this  against  a  win 
dow  toward  the  garden,  that  is,  against  a  window 
opposite  to  the  one  by  which  I  had  escaped. 

It  broke  the  glass  which  clattered  to  the  stones. 
Then  as  the  guards  rushed  in,  she  cried  out  excit 
edly.  "There,  there,  through  that  window!  To 
the  garden !" 

It  was  so  cleverly  acted  and  the  circumstances 
seemed  to  fit  so  nicely,  that  the  men  went  in  the 
wrong  direction  and  I  was  alone  on  the  ledge  with 
the  Queen's  pass  in  my  poke. 

As    for    Diane,  I  '11    write    you    but    a    page. 


320  Luca  Sarto 

When  the  guards  had  run  out  and  were  beating  in 
the  bush,  Diane  went  to  her  room.  But  she  did 
not  give  herself  to  idleness  or  lamentation.  For 
some  few  minutes  she  knelt  upon  her  knees,  pray 
ing  to  the  Virgin.  Then  her  prayer  fell  off,  but 
still  she  knelt  and  thought.  The  tirewoman, 
meantime,  wept  in  the  corner  until  the  stones  were 
wet. 

At  last  Diane  looked  up  from  her  prayers,  and 
on  her  face  a  new  plan  showed.  It  was  a  potent 
plan,  rich  in  promise,  yet  she  gave  no  hint  of  it  in 
speech. 

But  then  she  clouded.  "Holy  Virgin,"  she 
whispered,  "I  have  not  strength  to  do  it."  She 
knelt  again  before  her  crucifix  and  presently  her 
purpose  cleared.  "Blessed  Mary,"  she  prayed 
aloud,  "forgive  me  for  what  I  am  about  to  do. 
It 's  sacrilege,  but  it 's  the  only  way." 

Her  determination  was  made,  and  she  arose. 

"Marie,"  she  said. 

The  maid  held  up  her  head. 

"You  had  best  go  to  bed,  Marie.  I  've  no 
further  need  of  you  to-night." 

The  maid  went  off.  Diane  set  the  catch  behind 
her. 

Now    mark    what    she    did!     First    she    went 


An  Answer  to  the  Riddle  321 


a-rummage  in  her  chest  of  ck>thes,  and  laid  out 
this  and  that  garment.  Certain  gear  she  chose  at 
last,  all  of  white.  And  yet  to  name  the  pieces  is 
a  woman's  task.  But  what  does  Diane  with 
these*?  One  would  think  there  was  to  be  a  dance 
or  rigadoon.  Yet  the  darkness  of  the  castle  gives 
denial.  Nor  was  there  any  squeak  of  viol  or 
blowing  on  a  pipe.  Too  bleak  and  sodden  was  the 
palace  for  any  frisk  of  feet.  If  to  such  dull  halls 
Merriment  came,  she  must  have  been  a  sullen 
wench. 

Yet  Diane  held  another  purpose  as  she  clothed 
herself.  This  purpose  I  '11  keep  to  myself,  nor 
will  I  seek  to  spy  longer  in  her  room. 

Once  in  the  open  air,  my  thoughts  leaped  to  my 
own  concernments,  and  the  foolhardiness  of  my 
errand  came  to  me.  Of  my  own  will  I  was  going 
into  a  dungeon  from  which  I  might  never  return. 
Since  Dante  went  to  hell,  there  had  been  no  de 
scent  of  greater  hazard.  Yet  it  served  with 
merit,  for  it  kept  Diane  from  the  perils  of  the 
guardroom  and  the  winding  steps. 

I  rounded  the  end  of  the  building  and 'came 
into  the  garden.  Off  to  the  right  a  bow-shot's  dis 
tance  were  the  lights  of  my  pursuers  as  they  beat 
the  shrubbery.  I  trotted  on  and  passed  the 


322  Luca  Sarto 

Church  of  Saint  Ours.  It  showed  a  single  light. 
A  man  was  crouching  in  the  shadow.  It  was  too 
late  to  avoid  him,  so  I  passed  him  on  the  far  side 
of  the  path. 

"Michel,  you  rogue,"  I  cried,  "what  a  scare  you 
gave  me !" 

I  was  eased  to  know  that  it  was  he.  We  sat 
together  on  a  stone,  and  I  got  my  breath. 

"Michel,"  I  said,  "I  'm  going  into  the  dun 
geons." 

Michel  turned  a  scared  face  at  me. 

"And  when  I  come  out,  we  '11  start  for  Italy." 

"Ay,  Master,  and  the  fly  had  plans  also,  before 
the  spider  caught  him." 

I  cuffed  him  and  bade  him  hold  his  peace. 
"Michel,"  I  said,  "you  '11  take  this  gold  and  with 
it  you  '11  buy  fast  horses.  Four  of  them. 
You  '11  have  them  within  the  hour  upon  the  bridge 
above  the  Indre.  Have  no  fear  for  me,  but  do  as 
I  tell  you." 

"Ay." 

"Within  an  hour — four  horses — on  the  bridge." 

"Ay,  Master." 

I  looked  hard  at  him.  His  head  was  wagging 
from  side  to  side  most  disconsolately.  "Cheer 
yourself,"  I  said.  "There  was  never  yet  a  hawk 


An  Answer  to  the  Riddle  323 

caught  in  a  spider's  web.  The  mesh  is  spun  too 
thin.  I  '11  flap  through  somehow.  Now  be  off 
with  you!" 

I  watched  him  until  he  was  gone  from  sight. 
Then  it  came  on  me  suddenly  that  I  was  unarmed. 

From  every  point  you  take  it,  I  was  in  a  sad 
position. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

WHO    TRAVELS    FAR,    WILL    DISAPPEAR 

MY  spirits  sank  at  the  odds  against  me. 
Fate  had  thrown  sixes  on  the  hoard. 
Should  even  one  of  my  dice  roll  to  a  five  or  less, 
Fate  the  hag  would  take  me  by  the  throat.  Even 
now  her  fingers  itched  for  the  task.  I  was  in  dan 
ger  of  satisfying  the  proverb:  Who  travels  far, 
will  disappear.  Here  would  be  an  end  of  my 
wanderings.  Hereafter,  the  walls  of  Italy  would 
starve  for  my  brush.  The  Sistine  would  go  blank. 
And  yet  it 's  not  in  Luca  Sarto's  star  to  be  snuffed 
out  so.  To  him  hope  keeps  babbling.  There  is 
a  firm  conjunction  of  the  planets  that  he  shall  not 
be  swung  off  to  his  Maker  on  a  gibbet,  or  nibbled 
to  death  by  dungeon  rats. 

Michel  had  gone.  I  stood  alone,  weaponless, 
in  the  darkness  of  the  grove  of  lime  trees.  There 
was  a  wind,  and  it  moaned  through  the  trees  as 
though  nature  felt  kindly  toward  me,  yet  des 
paired. 

My  pass  was  a  sufficient  warrant  for  gaining  en- 
324 


Who   Travels  Far,  Will  Disappear     325 

trance  to  Motier's  dungeon.  Once  there  I  would 
flaunt  before  the  guardsmen  the  King's  ring,  given 
me  in  Paris  when  I  had  brought  back  the  lead 
saint.  It  would  be  potent  to  my  purpose.  Tall 
boasting  words  would  be  needed  also — but  I  knew 
them — an  insolen-t  authority,  a  dispatch  and  what 
not,  as  though  I  bore  majestical  royalty  on  my 
tongue.  I  could  play  the  part  like  the  best  actor 
that  ever  ranted  in  an  inn  yard.  It  would  appear 
that  the  King  had  sent  me  from  the  palace  to  bring 
Motier  to  him  to  be  quizzed.  Would  not  a  fin 
ger  ring  of  the  King  and  a  safe-conduct  of  the 
Queen  stretch  so  far?  A  handful  of  gold,  too, 
would  aid  credulity.  But  if  this  failed  despite 
my  bluster,  I  might  still  bribe  the  guardsman  to  let 
me  change  places  with  Motier.  I  'd  tell  him  that 
Motier  had  been  captured  in  the  dark,  that  no  one 
in  authority  had  seen  him  yet,  except  Tristan,  and 
he  only  by  a  lantern.  It  would  appear  that  he 
had  been  mistaken  in  his  man,  that  in  the  confu 
sion  he  had  arrested  me.  No  blame,  therefore, 
would  fall  upon  the  guardsman  and  he  'd  be  the 
richer  by  the  gold.  To  persuade  Motier  to  make 
the  change,  I  would  invent  some  dire  danger  to  his 
sister.  Slim  of  course.  But  I  would  put  pepper 
in  the  trial. 


326  Luca  Sarto 

As  for  myself — at  worst  I  would,  in  the  days 
to  come,  scratch  Madonnas  on  the  walls  and  die 
of  rot. 

Presently  I  came  from  the  denser  grove.  The 
dungeon  towers  stood  black  against  the  clouds. 
My  thoughts  went  back  to  Father  Paul.  "Your 
banded  spider,"  he  had  said,  "when  it  is  old  in 
wisdom,  spins  its  web  across  the  paths  of  dark 
ness." 

I  advanced  through  the  tangle  of  grass  toward 
the  towers.  As  I  came  near,  my  teeth  chattered 
with  cold  and  fear  and  excitement.  To  hide  my 
state,  I  kicked  loudly  against  an  outer  door,  for 
a  faint  heart  cloaks  itself  in  noise.  Then  I 
waited. 

A  little  fat  man  cautiously  opened  the  door,  and 
stood  squinting  at  me,  holding  a  light  above  his 
head.  He  was  tousled  and  greased  and  foul  like 
Gluttony  in  the  Mystery  when  it 's  acted.  And 
if  it  interest  you,  this  same  fat  man  was  the  orig 
inal  of  my  Silenus  in  the  Pitti.  I  thrust  the  ring 
beneath  his  eye,  and  demanded  in  the  King's  name 
that  he  lead  me  to  that  abominable  traitor,  Jacques 
Metier. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated. 

"What,  you  bag  of  husks,"  I  cried,  "is  it  not 


Who   Travels  Far,  Will  Disappear     327 

enough*?"  I  thrust  my  safe-conduct  at  him. 
"It 's  the  word  of  the  King  and  the  word  of  the 
Queen.  Let  me  pass!" 

He  wrinkled  his  forehead  upon  the  paper  like  a 
scholard  when  he  sets  his  glosses  in  a  text.  Yet 
slight  value  his  glosses  would  have  had,  for  the 
paper  dangled  from  his  ignorant  fingers  upside 
down,  like  a  tavern  acrobat. 

At  last  he  nodded  on  it  and  drew  me  to  the 
guardroom  door,  which  being  open,  bad  smells 
came  out.  With  such  a  breath  the  building  must 
have  a  foul  indigestion.  "The  calomel  is  cure,"  I 
thought,  and  held  my  nose  and  went  within  the 
maw. 

At  first  the  fat  man  was  for  calling  others  to 
consult  with  him.  I  prodded  him  to  ease  him  of 
the  thought.  "Make  haste,"  I  said.  "The  King 
waits.  'If  a  sleek  comely  man  comes  to  the  gate,' 
it 's  what  the  King  said,  'you  '11  get  the  best  dis 
patch.  He  '11  have  wit  to  recognize  my  ring.'  ' 

The  flattery  served. 

Beyond  the  guardroom  was  a  passage,  and  some 
distance  in,  beyond  hearing  unless  the  voice  be 
raised  in  fright,  were  circular  stairs  descending 
into  a  well.  From  such  a  bowel,  I  thought,  there 
would  be  need  of  strong  emetic  to  cast  me  forth. 


328  Luca  Sarto 

My  guide  stopped  now  and  then  and  put  his 
fingers  on  his  lips.  I  listened  but  could  hear  noth 
ing.  Still  he  would  not  go  on.  During  a  minute 
we  were  silent,  and  then  we  began  the  descent 
again. 

"Sh!"  he  whispered,  "do  you  hear  voices'?" 

There  was  a  sound  below,  but  I  could  not  tell 
whether  it  was  a  voice  or  only  some  animal  in  the 
walls.  Then  the  sound  ceased. 

"It  is  n't  the  first  time,"  he  cried,  and  shrank 
back  against  the  wall.  "I  have  heard  it  before, 
and  so  I  never  come  here  at  night." 

He  shivered  so  that  the  lantern  jiggled. 
From  below  came  the  same  monotone  as  before. 
It  ceased  again. 

And  now,  despite  my  urging,  he  declined  to  go 
farther.  Even  when  I  tapped  my  toe  in  his  fat 
seat,  as  he  stood  below  me  on  the  stairs,  it  failed 
of  its  intent.  Through  so  thick  a  cushion  my 
message  mounted  dully  to  his  head. 

Then  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  played 
upon  his  fears,  I  could  persuade  him  to  give  me 
his  keys.  They  would  be  ample  substitute  for 
himself.  But  no  persuasion  was  necessary.  At 
the  first  hint,  Silenus  dropped  his  ring  of  keys  and 


Who   Travels  Far,  Will  Disappear     329 

sprang  up  the  stairs.  I  reached  out  to  clutch  his 
leg. 

"You  fool,"  I  cried;  "leave  the  light  with  me!" 

I  caught  him  by  the  foot.  It  tripped  him  and 
he  fell.  The  lantern  was  extinguished  and  it  rat 
tled  down  the  steps.  We  were  in  pitchy  dark 
ness,  broken  by  not  so  much  light  as  issues  from 
a  tippler's  nose. 

I  could  hear  him  above  me,  panting.  I  could 
have  struck  him  in  my  anger.  "You  hutch  of 
dropsies,"  I  called,  "wait  for  my  return!" 

I  stood  up  and  reached  out  to  touch  the  outer 
rounding  wall.  "Does  Motier's  dungeon  lie  at 
the  bottom  of  this  shaft?" 

"Ay,  Monsieur,  it  does.  It 's  three  times 
round,  and  there  's  the  door." 

With  much  grunting,  the  fat  man  got  upon  his 
feet.  He  scuttled  up  the  steps  and  was  gone. 

Step  by  step  I  descended.  Once  I  put  my  fin 
gers  on  a  grill.  I  put  my  ear  upon  the  opening. 
There  was  no  sound,  until  on  a  sudden  I  heard  a 
sneeze — a  shriveled  little  sneeze  as  though  there 
were  dregs  only  in  the  pipes.  It  was  horrible  to 
hear  in  that  hole  of  darkness  anything  so  human. 

And  now  I  went  twice  round  the  shaft  as  I 


330  Luca  Sarto 

judged  it — forty-six  steps — and  was  at  the  bot 
tom.  My  extended  fingers  touched  something  of 
wood,  a  door  that  blocked  my  further  progress. 
It  was  solid,  without  grill.  Passing  my  fingers 
down  its  surface,  I  came  upon  a  chain  and  lock. 
I  put  my  ear  against  the  door.  There  was  no 
sound.  Then  I  inserted  my  great  key,  turned  it, 
pushed  open  the  door — and  stood  face  to  face  with 
Jacques  Metier  and  the  King  of  France. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

I    TRY    A    FALL    WITH    THE    KING 

THERE  was  a  lantern  on  the  stones,  its  light 
cast  up  as  if  for  a  play  or  interlude.  Be 
hind  it,  with  its  glare  on  him,  was  the  King,  legs 
straddled  though  touching  at  the  knees,  head  up 
and  eyebrows  raised,  jaw  snapped  shut,  hand  upon 
his  sword,  face  clouded — puzzled  by  my  interrup 
tion.  Motier  stood  new-risen  from  his  stool,  with 
his  head  craned  across  his  shoulder.  His  fingers 
were  clutched  upon  his  doublet,  and  his  face  was 
white.  As  for  myself,  judge  my  bafflement! 

The  King  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was  grin 
ning  now.  "To  what  do  I  owe  this  pleasure, 
Luca  Sarto"?" 

Before  I  spoke,  I  went  down  upon  my  knees, 
hat  in  hand.  "Evil 's  been  worked  against  me, 
your  Majesty.  I  have  come  to  you  for  justice." 

"Justice*?"  Louis  smirked.  "You  had  best  beg 
for  mercy.  A  gallows'  rope  is  justice." 

"Sire,  you  are  mistaken  in  me." 
331 


332  Luca  Sarto 

But  Louis  broke  in,  "Save  your  breath,  Sarto!" 

I  persisted,  "Cardinal  Rovere  will  take  it  ill  if 
mischance  falls  on  his  friend." 

"I  '11  act  upon  your  hint.  My  legate  shall  be 
instructed  it  was  an  illness  took  you  off." 

"Heart  of  God,  your  Majesty,  why  do  you  vent 
yourself  on  me?" 

Louis  ignored  the  question.  He  stroked  his 
chin,  making  a  wry  face.  "Young  man,"  he  said 
at  length,  "it  puzzles  me  how  you  got  entrance  to 
me." 

"Cardinal  Rovere  will  be  much  amazed—  '  I 
persisted. 

"Hold  your  tongue!" 

The  King's  grin  was  gone.  His  mouth  was  set 
and  hard.  To  no  purpose  had  I  scuffed  upon  my 
knees.  Foul  roads  there  blocked  my  advance 
through  humility.  I  must  go  another  way.  I 
rolled  my  eyes  up  ceilingward. 

"King  Louis,"  I  said,  "to-night  the  Virgin  has 
been  gracious  to  you.  For  her  sake  will  you  not 
spare  your  enemies'?" 

Louis  stood  for  a  moment  in  thought,  and  he 
crossed  himself.  Then  a  wolfish  look  came  in  his 
face.  "Luca  Sarto,"  he  snarled,  "to-morrow  I  '11 
hang  you  on  a  gibbet." 


/   Try  a  Fall  with  the  King         333 

There  was  a  slough  on  this  road  too.  I  must 
go  still  another  way. 

"Motier,"  I  said,  and  I  pointed  to  the  iron  gate 
that  stood  open  across  the  dungeon,  "where  does 
that  passage  lead?" 

"It 's  so  the  King  came  in,"  he  replied.  "It 's 
an  egress  from  the  dungeons." 

Louis  stood  against  the  farther  wall,  his  cat's 
eye  on  me.  At  the  mention  of  the  passage,  he 
stirred  himself.  He  pointed  to  the  stool.  "Sit 
there,  Sarto !  I  '11  hear  you !" 

As  I  turned  half  way,  he  made  a  sudden  move 
to  pass  me  and  gain  the  grating.  I  blocked  his 
approach.  "Sire,"  I  said,  "Sarto  will  not  sit  be 
fore  the  King  of  France." 

Louis  flashed  a  look  of  anger  at  me.  If  he  had 
intended  to  leave  the  dungeon  through  the  grating, 
I  had  cut  him  off. 

And  now  I  had  planned  to  leap  on  Louis,  but 
on  looking  closely  at  his  left  hand  half  concealed 
in  his  clothing,  I  saw  a  knife  in  his  fingers.  His 
right  hand  held  a  sword,  the  point  resting  on  the 
stones.  I  had  best  keep  off.  Motier  stood  at  my 
elbow. 

"Motier,"  I  said,  "close  the  door  I  came  in  by!" 
He  did  so  on  full-stretched  chain.  "Now  lock 


334  Luca  Sarto 

it!"  He  hesitated,  but  I  swore  an  oath  and  he 
obeyed. 

"On  my  soul,"  said  Louis — but  he  was  for  a 
moment  puzzled — "you  are  as  careful  to  lock  the 
door  as  an  old  housewife.  Do  you  fear  thieves 
in  the  cupboard*?" 

I  twitched  the  key  in  my  fingers. 

Louis  laughed  at  me.  "You  underset  my  wit, 
young  man.  I  need  no  guardsman  to  protect  me. 
See  how  I  guard  myself!" 

He  advanced  the  point  of  his  sword  until  it 
rested  against  my  throat.  Then  he  pressed  me 
back  against  the  wall,  scratching  my  throat  until 
he  had  drawn  blood. 

"Give  me  the  key,"  he  said. 

I  tossed  it  to  the  floor.  If  Louis  stoops  to  get 
it,  I  thought,  I  shall  leap  on  him. 

Louis  looked  sidewise  at  the  key  as  though  he 
coveted  it,  and  at  me  sharply,  for  he  had  read  my 
thoughts. 

"Your  manners,  young  man,  are  foul,"  he  said. 
"Hand  me  the  key."  But  I  watched  him  nar 
rowly,  for  some  guile  was  working  in  him. 

Then  I  saw  his  trick  too  late.  On  a  sudden  he 
flicked  the  key  with  the  side  of  his  foot,  and  sent  it 
spinning  across  the  stones  in  the  direction  of  the 


/  Try  a  Fall  with  the  King         335 

door.  It  jounced  upon  its  course  and  slid  out  of 
sight  through  the  crack  beneath. 

"Messieurs,"  said  Louis  and  he  smiled  broadly, 
"I  've  scored  a  goal.  The  game  is  done.  I  bid 
you  good  night.  Both  of  you  will  now  lie  snug 
here  until  the  morrow." 

Louis  backed  carefully  away  from  me  and  came 
before  the  grating.  His  hand  was  on  it. 

"Stay,  your  Majesty!"  I  cried,  for  our  only 
hope  of  escape  lay  in  holding  him  on  some  pre 
text.  Were  the  grating  once  shut  and  Louis  gone 
upon  his  business,  our  plight  was  desperate. 

Louis  hesitated.  Already  he  was  outside  the 
grill  and  was  closing  it.  But  the  cat  was  upper 
most  in  him.  It  would  please  him  to  cuff  once 
more  the  mice  that  he  had  caught. 

During  these  seconds  I  saw  but  two  things,  the 
King's  smirk  and  his  glittering  steel.  Yet  my 
thoughts  leaped  as  in  a  race.  Thoughts,  remem 
brances,  plans,  galloped  through  my  head  until  it 
spun  like  a  chariot  wheel.  But  from  all  this  con 
fusion,  by  a  strange  chance,  there  emerged  the  re 
membrance  of  Louis  as  I  had  seen  him  first  in 
Paris,  in  the  Tournelles,  when  the  thought  of 
death  had  plagued  him.  Blood  was  wet  on  my 
throat,  and  the  King's  grin  was  before  me. 


336  Luca  Sarto 

"King  Louis,"  I  asked,  "have  men  ever  bought 
their  lives'?"  I  watched  his  face. 

"With  what  kind  of  coin'?"  he  asked. 

"The  confession  is  long.  Have  you  the  pa 
tience  to  hear  it?" 

"Confession,  Sarto?" 

"Have  you  patience  for  my  confession,  King 
Louis?" 

"It 's  meager  in  me,  Sarto." 

"Then  I  shall  not  begin." 

"What  would  you  tell  me?"  he  asked. 

"My  tongue  should  be  torn  out,"  I  cried.  "It 
is  base  to  betray  one's  friends."  I  watched  Louis 
to  see  whether  I  had  aroused  any  interest. 

"Ah,"  said  Louis,  "do  you  wish  to  tell  me  about 
your  friends  in  Italy?" 

I  hung  my  head,  then  nodded. 

"Then,"  said  Louis,  "make  a  start!" 

"And  you  '11  hold  in  confidence  that  it  was  I 
who  betrayed  these  matters?" 

"It 's  as  you  wish,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  quickly 
what  you  will,  before  I  tire!  Perhaps  it 's  about 
the  Pope  and  Burgundy.  Come,  young  man, 
speak  while  the  humor  is  in  me  to  listen !" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "if  it  must  be.  My  life  's  the 
reward." 


/  Try  a  Fall  with  the  King         337 

"If  what  you  tell  me  is  worth  it." 

"It 's  the  Church — things  that  are  known  only 
if  one  sets  his  ear  at  a  keyhole." 

"How  shall  these  things  profit  me*?" 

"I  shall  tell  you." 

"Be  on  your  way,  Sarto!  If  what  you  tell  me 
has  value,  I  shall  set  you  free." 

I  knew  that  he  lied.  Nothing  that  I  might  be 
tray  would  save  me.  My  wits  were  my  only 
guard.  Motier's  lip  curled  in  scorn.  "You  play 
the  cur,"  he  whined,  "and  to  no  purpose."  He 
turned  from  me  and  squatted  down  upon  the  stool, 
with  his  head  sunk  in  his  hands. 

"I  live  in  Rome,"  I  began.  "I  am  friends  with 
the  churchmen." 

"Ah,"  said  Louis,  "there  's  the  wind." 

"Ay,  your  Majesty.  Once  I  journeyed  to 
Milan.  It  was  Pope  Paul  sent  me.  Papal  busi 
ness,  your  Majesty!" 

I  tapped  my  breast  to  indicate  that  important 
papers  were  on  my  person  at  the  time  of  it. 

"The  Sforza  live  in  Milan.  Bona  of  Savoy, 
my  kinswoman,  married  Galeazzo  Maria."  This 
from  King  Louis. 

"I  was  delayed  and  it  seemed  that  the  night 
would  come  before  I  reached  the  city.  It  was  a 


338  Luca  Sarto 

warm  summer  night,  with  a  low-hanging  moon, 
frayed  and  ragged — a  clear  night,  without  clouds 
—no  clouds  for  weeks,  and  the  land  steaming  and 
cracking.  I  traveled  alone  on  a  jaded  horse. 
Night  had  closed  against  the  fields  and  there 
was  nothing  ahead  but  the  lights  of  a  village,  and 
a  greater  light  that  blurred  the  darkness.  This 
greater  light  was  a  fire  burning  in  a  field,  and  a 
crowd  of  men  moved  about  it.  In  the  red  glow 
was  a  scaffold  of  wood,  and  joiners  were  at  work 
with  a  tapping  of  hammers. 

"I  called  to  them.  'Who  is  to  be  the  crows' 
meat1?'  I  asked. 

"  'It's  Benedetti's  scaffold,'  they  cried  back. 
'He  's  to  be  hanged  in  the  morning.'  The  gib 
bet's  shadow  lay  like  a  cross  in  the  road  before 
me.  The  tapping  of  hammers  fell  off  behind. 

"As  I  reached  the  city,  I  passed  workmen  with 
tools  on  their  shoulders,  coming  back  from  their 
day's  work.  'Who  is  Benedetti?'  I  asked.  'Ben- 
edetti  was  Prefect,'  they  said;  'he  is  to  be  hanged 
in  the  morning.'  They  passed  on  laughing. 

"I  entered  the  city  and  came  before  a  drinking 
place.  There  were  lights  at  the  chinks  of  the 
shutters  and  a  noise  within.  I  listened  to  a  rat- 


/  Try  a  Fall  with  the  King        339 

tie  of  cups.  I  put  my  head  at  the  door.  'Why 
do  they  hang  this  Benedetti?'  I  cried. 

"A  drunkard's  breath  blew  in  my  face.  'God! 
I  '11  spit  on  Benedetti's  corpse  to-morrow.' ' 

King  Louis  shifted  his  feet.  "Hurry!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Your  story  grows  tiresome." 

I  looked  at  Louis.  He  waited  expectant  for 
what  I  might  say  of  Galeazzo  Maria. 

"Perhaps  I  have  told  enough,"  I  said.  "And 
yet  there  are  things  to  come.  I  '11  speak  of  Pope 
Paul  presently,  and  then,  if  you  've  patience,  of 
your  brother  Charles." 

"What  of  Charles?" 

At  this  Motier  blurted  out :  "Hold  your  peace, 
Sarto !  Must  you  have  others  to  swing  upon  your 
gibbet?" 

Louis  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  I  con 
tinued  the  narrative. 

"By  and  by  I  stood  before  gloomy  walls,  black 
and  lifeless,  for  the  ragged  moon  had  set.  A  man 
passed  in  the  shadow  of  a  building.  'Yo,  ho, 
what 's  this?'  I  cried.  'It 's  the  dungeons,'  he  re 
plied.  I  pulled  upon  a  bell  cord.  Chains  rattled, 
and  a  man  as  gray  and  shabby  as  a  rat  popped  out 
his  head.  He  snarled  upon  me  for  breaking  up 


34°  Luca  Sarto 

his  sleep.  And  now,  your  Majesty,  I  come  to  the 
point.  Through  my  acquaintance  with  the 
churchmen  I  was  admitted.  I  wished  to  see  and 
speak  with  this  Benedetti,  who  once  had  been  a 
friend  of  Burgundy.  Burgundy !  Before  the 
body  was  hung  up  to  rot,  there  were  secrets  to  be 
had." 

I  glanced  at  Louis  intently.  His  jaw  was  less 
tightly  compressed.  His  position  was  unchanged 
—hand  on  the  grating — but  he  had  lost  assur 
ance.  He  was  held  to  my  story,  and  for  reasons 
beside  the  prospect  of  learning  forbidden  things. 
But  my  hope  was  still  forlorn. 

"An  artist,  sire,"  I  said,  "must  know  the  look 
of  things.  He  was  a  little  man,  this  Benedetti, 
with  a  stooped  figure  and  black  suit.  He  wore  a 
cap  pulled  forward  on  his  eyes.  Like  yours,  your 
Majesty.  And  his  face  was  thin.  And  as  the 
priests  and  I  stood  before  him,  they  told  him  he 
must  die." 

"Stop!"  Louis  cried.     "I  've  heard  enough!" 

"Not  yet,"   I  said.     "This  is  the  very  point. 
It 's   what   Benedetti    is   to  say.      It 's   treason- 
treason — plots     with     Burgundy     and     Guienne 
against  the  throne  of  France." 

Motier,  still  upon  his  stool,  looked  up.     "You 


/   Try  a  Fall  with  the  King         341 

smirch  your  honor,  Sarto.  Peace!  It  will  not 
save  you." 

The  King's  sword  trembled.  Yet  I  held  him  to 
my  tale. 

"The  priests  told  Benedetti  that  he  must  be 
hanged  at  daybreak."  I  grasped  my  throat  and 
bent  it  forward  to  drive  home  my  hideous  mean 
ing.  For  so  they  hang  at  Montfaucon,  head  for 
ward. 

"He,  too,  this  Benedetti,  spanned  his  throat 
with  his  ringers,  and  pressed  his  nails  into  the 
flesh  to  know  beforehand  what  the  horror  would 
be  like.  He  was  a  little  man,  your  Majesty. 
About  your  size." 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?"  the  King  cried. 

"A  minute  more.  Pie  will  talk  presently. 
And  then  you  will  hear  about  this  treason  of 
Guienne. 

"  'When  is  it  to  be?'  asked  Benedetti. 

"'The  scaffold  is  in  the  fields!'  they  cried. 
'All  the  night  the  joiners  have  been  at  work.  It 
is  four  hours  until  the  morning/ 

"Then  the  terror  of  Benedetti  was  loose.  He 
buried  his  fingers  in  the  flesh  of  his  throat  until 
the  color  started  in  his  face.  And  he  shrieked 
and  fell  to  the  floor.  Then  the  priests  kicked  him 


342  Luca  Sarto 

until  he  rolled  to  the  wall  and  lay  there,  panting, 
with  a  dirty  sweat  upon  him." 

"Stop!"  cried  the  King.  He  leaned  back 
against  the  stones  and  drew  his  hand  across  his 
face.  It  was  his  left  hand,  for  his  sword  was  still 
extended. 

I  went  on  faster  and  more  excitedly,  for  I  was 
summoning  a  demon  to  my  aid. 

"An  old  man,  this  Benedetti,  like  you,  and 
hated.  And  he  lay  in  his  sweat  against  the  wall 
when  they  left  him.  In  the  dark." 

"Stop!"  The  King's  face  was  a  marvel.  It 
had  changed  from  a  sneer,  to  interest,  to  anger, 
and  lastly  to  fear.  Fear!  Do  you  remember 
that  night  in  Paris  when  I  had  frightened  the 
King  by  talking  to  him  of  death?  I  bade  you 
mark  it  to  the  better  understanding  of  my  tale. 

The  time  had  come  for  proof.  I  threw  my 
arms  aloft  and  yelled  aloud.  "By  the  teeth  of 
God,  Louis,  the  monster  Death — it  stands  behind 
you!" 

An  awful  look  came  on  Louis's  face.  He  shriv 
eled  at  the  sound  and  his  humped  back  shook. 

But  then,  'fore  God,  he  did  not  turn  as  I  had 
hoped. 

Had  he  for  an  instant  taken  his  glance  from  me, 


/  Try  a  Fall  with  the  King         343 

I  had  leaped  on  him.  His  knees  clapped,  but  he 
kept  his  gaze.  His  sword  point  was  still  level 
with  my  breast.  My  players'  rant  had  failed. 

On  Louis's  face  there  came  a  look  of  under 
standing.  "Sarto,"  he  sneered,  "there  's  been  a 
mummer  spoilt.  You  speak  your  lines  rarely. 
You  shame  Cambyses."  He  advanced  to  the 
grating.  His  hand  was  on  it.  He  went  through 
and  drew  it  shut  behind  him. 

In  the  silence  I  heard  Balue  coughing.  It  was 
a  cough  grown  thin  with  damp.  And  the  gnaw 
ing  of  a  rat  I  heard  upon  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

HOW    THE    KING'S    PRAYERS    WERE    ANSWERED 

I  HAD  mouthed  to  no  avail.  And  now  in  my 
rage  I  had  blasphemed,  had  not  a  weakness 
seized  me  and  a  dryness  come  upon  my  tongue. 
The  King  stood  beyond  the  grating,  and  on  his 
face  there  grew  a  sneer  of  understanding  what 
guile  and  malpractice  I  had  stirred  him  with.  His 
eyes  were  shining  green  as  the  lantern  fell  athwart 
them,  green  like  a  hungry  wolf.  And  some 
toothed  and  snarling  words  he  uttered,  bur  I 
marked  them  not,  standing  all  limp  with  the  blood 
a-trickle  from  the  scratches  on  my  throat.  My 
tale  of  gibbeting  now  turned  inward  on  myself, 
and  I  shuddered. 

It  was  thus  for  several  minutes,  or  longer,  for 
aught  I  know.  I  shut  my  eyes,  that  so  I  might 
keep  out  the  sight  of  the  King.  I  tottered  against 
the  wall,  and  through  my  dullness  there  pierced 
the  cold  and  damp. 

Some  time  passed,  and  now  the  taunting  words 
had  ceased.  I  stood  in  a  daze,  daring  not  to  open 

344 


The  King's  Prayers  Were  Answered     345 

my  eyes.  All  sounds  were  gone,  but  those  of  rats 
and  water.  Had  the  King  spent  his  fit6?  Had  he 
gone  off  and  left  us  buried*?  Yet  there  had  been 
no  rattle  of  the  gate. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  As  before,  there  arose  the 
dungeon  wall,  the  iron  grating,  and  the  darkness 
beyond. 

But  the  King!  I  looked  and  thought  I 
dreamed.  This  is  what  I  saw.  Marvel  at  my 
amazement !  In  front  of  me,  almost  in  touch,  on 
his  knees,  I  saw  the  King — his  cap  of  saints  laid 
before  him  on  the  stones — and  beside  him  I  saw 
Motier,  both  of  them  praying.  Nor  is  that  all. 
Was  I  crazed6?  Had  fear  so  shaken  me6?  Mark 
the  greater  wonder ! 

The  agonizing  prayer  of  Louis  had  been  an 
swered.  In  the  doorway,  as  I  turned,  the  Virgin 
stood — the  blessed  Virgin  of  Saint  Ours. 

The  day  of  days  had  come!  Her  nod  and 
promise  were  fulfilled.  And  this  for  a  hunch 
back's  piping  prayers.  She  was  white  garmented, 
with  a  blue  mantel  set  about  her  shoulders,  and 
on  her  head  was  the  golden  crown  that  I  remem 
bered  to  have  seen  before,  while  yet  she  stood  in 
lifeless  stone.  Thus  had  come  the  day  of  won 
ders  to  which  her  former  nod  had  made  attest. 


346  Luca  Sarto 

And  wondrous  would  be  this  day  to  all  suc 
ceeding  generations,  for  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
again  the  Virgin  walked  on  her  blessed  feet  and 
touched  men  to  make  them  whole. 

"Maria,"  I  cried,  "save  me  from  my  sins!" 
And  down  I  went,  too,  upon  my  knees.  The  Vir 
gin  spoke  not  a  word,  but  she  touched  Louis  on 
the  arm.  A  radiance  fell  about  her,  and  she  cast 
no  shadow  from  the  lantern. 

She  touched  Louis  on  the  arm  and  with  a  ges 
ture  she  bade  him  hold  his  peace.  Then  Motier 
she  touched  and  then  myself.  But  I  dropped  my 
eyes  before  her  glance,  down  to  her  sandaled  feet. 

It  was  my  face  she  touched  and  her  fingers  were 
warm. 

When  I  lifted  my  eyes  she  had  turned  away. 
She  stood  at  the  iron  grating  for  an  instant,  then 
lifted  her  garment  to  prevent  it  catching  on  the 
broken  sill.  Then  she  was  gone  from  sight. 
Louis  still  mumbled  his  prayers  and  rocked  upon 
the  stones. 

And  now  while  the  daze  of  exaltation  was  still 
upon  the  others,  into  my  senses  leaped  the  present 
world.  And  into  me  there  came  a  ray  of  light — a 
beam  from  my  wisdom.  Be  your  scandal  what  it 
may,  I  laughed — but  inwardly  and  not  aloud. 


The  King's  Prayers  W ere  Answered     347 

Then  striding  forward  I  kicked  the  weapons  be 
yond  Louis's  reach  and  picked  them  up — his  sword 
and  Turkish  poniard.  Again  I  laughed  as  the 
light  came  stronger,  while  still,  as  in  a  fog  of 
night,  these  others  crouched  upon  their  knees. 

I  saw  light,  and  in  many  guises.  Of  this  vision 
first.  I  had  seen  her  sandals,  mark  you,  when  I 
had  bowed  my  head  in  prayer,  and  they  were  un 
like  those  of  the  stone  image  in  the  church.  Her 
stockings  were  white,  with  blue  clocks  that  showed 
an  inch  when  she  crossed  the  sill.  And  I  remem 
bered  that  I  had  seen  these  blue  clocks  before,  in 
other  circumstance.  Nor  were  her  fingers  long 
and  thin.  Nor  tall  her  figure.  So,  like  water 
in  the  stone,  reason  trickled  in  and  cracked  the 
whole.  And  so,  I  thought,  where  my  players'  rant 
hud  failed,  another's  wit  had  served.  Thereat  I 
would  have  cried  aloud  in  glee,  except  that  cau 
tion  silenced  me. 

"Rejoice,  sire!"  I  cried.  I  held  now  all  the 
weapons.  "Rejoice!  Your  prayers  have  found 
an  answer." 

But  the  King  spoke  nothing.  He  rocked  and 
mumbled  and  kissed  the  lead  saints  that  lay  upon 
the  stones. 

I  gazed  into  Louis's  face.     It  was  the  face  of 


348  Luca  Sarto 

one  lost  in  the  dark  ways  of  prayer  and  wonder. 
Me  he  saw  not,  only  the  vision  for  which  so  often 
he  had  gone  on  pilgrimage.  The  fulfillment  of 
this  buried  all  things  else.  Into  the  ocean-sea  had 
Louis  gone,  beyond  the  furthest  glimmer  of  the 
Canaries.  There,  they  say,  the  world  slopes  off, 
and  as  yet  there  came  no  eastward  wind  of  reason 
to  blow  him  up  the  steeps.  It  was  a  dark  void 
that  lay  about  him,  for  the  very  stars  were  dim,  so 
far  in  ocean  was  he  sundered. 

I  regarded  steadfastly  the  face  of  this  man  who 
had  planned  and  sinned  and  schemed  and  suf 
fered,  who  had  looked  on  the  mystery  of  death 
and  who  now  had  seen  a  vision.  An  artist  must 
know  the  look  of  men.  Some  day  I  shall  mix  the 
blacks  and  grays,  and  my  fingers  will  fret  to  seize 
my  brushes,  and  my  brain  will  beat  and  throb. 
Then  look  to  your  laurels,  O  mighty  Giotto,  for 
the  walls  of  Rome  shall  be  my  witness.  My 
shadows  still  lie  westward.  All's  to  come! 

And  now  I  had  gone  poking  with  my  dagger 
into  Louis's  ribs — I  itched  thereto — but  considera 
tion  came  that  a  villain's  blood  should  not  be  let 
while  he 's  crouched  in  prayer.  Had  once  his 
mumbling  ceased  I  had  paid  him  off.  Any 
pause — a  sneeze — would  have  been  his  death. 


The  King's  Prayers  Were  Answered     349 

And  yet  I  feel  shame  that  my  better  impulse  was 
thus  fobbed.  It  would  have  been  a  sweeter 
France. 

Then  I  aroused  Motier  and,  with  the  key  of 
Silenus  I  loosed  his  chains.  We  crossed  the  cell 
to  the  grating  through  which  the  vision  had  de 
parted.  We  passed  through  and  set  the  bolts. 

Now  for  the  last  time  I  looked  upon  the  King 
—praying  and  wagging  on  his  knees.  And  I 
bade  him  keep  to  his  prayers,  for  other  sounds 
would  avail  him  nothing.  Though  he  roared  like 
the  winds  from  all  five  seas,  no  mortal  ear  could 
hear  him.  It  was  eight  hours  to  breakfast  time, 
when  the  jailor  would  come  down  with  porridge. 
If  then  the  mists  were  off  the  King,  what  a  blast 
he  'd  get  when  he  put  the  black  bread  beneath 
Louis's  nose. 

So  we  left  him,  rocking  back  and  forth,  kiss 
ing  his  cap  of  saints.  Who  shall  say  it  was  not 
the  perfectest  hour  the  King  had  known  for  many 
a  year*? 

May  seventeenth  it  was,  in  the  year  fourteen 
seventy-one.  Set  it  down  that  on  that  night  the 
Madonna  came  to  life.  And  let  this  be  told  to  all 
who  come  on  pilgrimage,  that  for  the  repetition  of 
the  marvel  their  prayers  be  stretched  from  morn  to 


350  Luca  Sarto 

night.  But  let  it  not  be  told  that  the  Madonna 
walked  in  sandals  of  this  present  mode,  or  that 
she  wore  stockings  with  blue  clocks  upon  them. 
Had  Sarto  been  a  Frenchman,  he  too  would  have 
kept  upon  his  knees  and  mumbled  and  rocked  him 
self.  It  was  his  Italian  nose  that  sniffed  the  im 
position  out. 

Once  safe  through  the  grating,  I  shook  Motier 
by  the  shoulder  and  badgered  him,  for  I  could  not 
have  him  so  amazed  when  work  was  to  be  done 
and  wit  was  needed.  It  was  not  until  Diane  ap 
peared,  still  dressed  as  the  virgin,  and  had  spoken 
to  him  and  called  him  "Jacques"  and  "silly 
brother,"  that  he  saw  the  truth,  but  not  then 
without  a  trembling.  Had  I  not  clapped  him  on 
the  back,  he  would  still  have  gone  upon  his  knees 
to  her. 

And  now,  although  I  thirsted  for  the  knowledge 
of  how  Diane  had  contrived  the  imposition,  action 
and  speed  were  our  first  necessity. 

Behind  us  the  King's  candle  burned.  At  the 
turn  I  stopped.  "Listen,  Diane,"  I  said. 
"Louis  still  grunts  his  prayer  to  you." 

"Peace,  Sarto,"  she  answered;  "your  raillery  is 
ill-timed.  God  spare  me!  I've  done  sacrilege 
to-night."  She  hurried  on. 


The  King's  Prayers  Were  Answered     351 

Before  us  stretched  a  rough  stone  passage, 
strewed  about  with  litter.  Presently  there  were 
steps,  and  then  a  door.  Beyond  was  a  room  with 
swept  flagging,  and  with  an  altar  set  with  figures 
—a  kind  of  chapel.  Yet  on  the  wall  there  hung 
a  sword.  Even  if  it  had  been  Saint  Michael's  I 
would  have  stolen  it.  It  was  a  Milan  blade  with 
a  fine  whip  to  it.  Thus  Motier  and  I  both  were 
armed.  Another  door  opened  against  circular 
stairs,  which  we  climbed.  Here  was  still  another 
door,  but  Diane  had  the  key.  I  listened  like  a 
fox  at  the  top  of  his  hole,  but  hearing  nothing,  I 
swung  it  open.  We  were  inside  the  church  of 
Saint  Ours.  We  had  issued  from  Louis's  secret 
passage. 

The  church  was  empty  but  not  in  darkness,  for 
a  dozen  tapers  burned  about  the  Madonna's 
statue.  They  had  been  set  there  when  Louis  first 
saw  the  nodding  in  the  dusk.  Such  miracles  had 
happened  since!  Silent  stood  the  Madonna,  nor 
seemed  to  heed  that  her  golden  crown  was  gone, 
and  the  azure  mantel  from  her  shoulders. 

You  have  not  found  Sarto  with  much  mumble 
on  his  lips.  His  thoughts,  for  the  most  part,  are 
on  the  world.  On  his  lips  canzonets  have 
sounded  oftener  than  anthems.  His  mouth  is  not 


352  Luca  Sarto 

solemn  enough  to  fit  an  alleluia.  Yet,  coming 
suddenly  on  the  lights,  the  glory  of  it  burst  on  him, 
and  he  knelt  down  upon  the  stones. 

As  for  Diane,  she  was  all  amazed.  What 
things  she  had  done  within  the  hour!  It  makes 
Sarto,  even,  marvel  how  she  had  strength  for  such 
sacrilege.  For  aught  he  knows,  the  azure  mantel 
had  never  been  touched  before  except  by  the 
hands  of  priests  and  by  pilgrims'  lips.  Yet  Diane 
had  set  it  on  herself  as  though  her  women's  fin 
gers  had  made  the  seams. 

And  now  she  put  all  back,  placing  the  crown 
upon  the  Virgin's  head  and  laying  the  mantel  on, 
together  with  all  else  of  jewels  and  beads. 
Abasement  and  fear  were  on  her.  She  kissed  the 
garment  at  the  hem,  then  bowed  her  head  against 
the  stones.  "Mother  of  God,"  she  cried,  "Blessed 
Virgin,  visit  me  not  with  thy  wrath  !"  And  much 
more,  her  words  piteous. 

At  last  I  roused  her.     Speed  was  needed. 

"May  God  forgive  me,  Sarto.  I  had  not  done 
it  except  that  the  Queen  told  me  my  face  was  like 
the  blessed  Virgin's." 

"So  it  is,  dear  lady,"  I  answered. 

We  went  into  the  night,  and  we  looked  on  the 
stars  we  had  thought  we  would  not  see  again. 


The  King's  Prayers  W ere  Answered     353 

Vega  rode  brightest.     But  also  I  knew  the  Bear 
and  the  Northern  Star  that  hangs  off  its  points. 

We  dipped  our  fingers  in  the  holy  water  at  the 
door.     Then  we  hurried  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A  SONG  FOR  TWO  VOICES WITH  ACCOMPANIMENT 

A  LTHOUGH  it  was  late,  there  were  still 
JL\.  lights  in  the  windows,  for  all  the  night 
would  the  wonder  grow  how  the  Virgin  had  been 
seen  nodding  in  the  dusk. 

At  the  castle  gate,  after  a  fretful  minute,  a 
crutch  came  tapping,  and  a  pale  old  man  came 
out.  He  put  his  eyes  a-squint  upon  our  pass. 
Then  with  lifted  voice,  "C'est  bien"  he  called. 

In  answer  from  her  window,  his  madame  wife 
tossed  down  a  key.  We  went  through  the  gate, 
and  it  clattered  shut.  The  warder  climbed  off  to 
bed,  grunting  that  his  beauty  sleep  was  broken. 
We  ran  down  the  hill. 

A  turn  and  we  had  come  upon  the  bridge. 
Michel  awaited  us  with  horses,  as  I  had  bade  him. 

Above  us  loomed  the  dungeons.  I  thought  that 
I  marked  the  very  spot  upon  the  wall  where  Mo- 
tier  was  kept — and  Balue,  also,  dying  in  his  iron 
cage.  One  jagged  battlement  stood  above  the 

354 


A  Song  for  Two  Voices  355 

rest,  and  seemed  to  point  in  defiance  up  to  heaven. 

We  mounted  our  horses  and  the  race  began. 
We  had  six  hours'  start  of  Louis  at  the  least,  to 
take  no  account  of  the  time  he  would  lose  in  the 
first  confusion  of  pursuit — whether  we  had  gone 
east  or  south,  and  by  what  road.  There  would  be 
a  brawl  of  question.  Seven  hours'  start. 

My  plan  was  the  road  that  runs  through 
Bourges  and  Autun.  The  fourth  day  would  bring 
us  to  the  Swiss  border,  where  we  would  be  safe. 

We  cantered  off  the  bridge  and  turned  our 
horses  along  a  woodland  road.  And  still  the  wind 
came  singing  through  the  trees.  And  it  stirred 
me  deep  that  so  I  rode  and  that  beside  me  kept  this 
woman — this  Diane  of  the  blue  eyes,  who  but  a 
few  days  since  had  stood  upon  the  cold  margin  of 
my  life.  Quick  she  had  entered  in,  and  it  drove 
me  cold  what  speed  the  gods  do  have.  It 's  but 
a  snapping  of  their  fingers — Poof ! — and  by  Saint 
Agnes,  it  is  done.  Then  rapt  as  I  was,  I  thought 
of  Father  Paul,  and  smiled.  It  were  con 
venient  to  have  a  priest  at  journey's  end.  But 
soft  I  kept  my  thoughts,  and  on  we  went.  We 
passed  a  town  or  so  and  many  streams.  Always 
our  road  lay  eastward. 

But   what   thought   this   woman   at  my  side4? 


356  Luca  Sarto 

Bide  a  while !     The  issue  will  show.     The  pasty 
of  the  feast  is  yet  to  come. 

Under  the  wheel  of  night,  slow  turning,  we 
journeyed  on.  And  stars  that  had  glinted  first 
above  our  horses'  ears,  now  rode  high  aloft.  Time 
and  ourselves  sped  on. 

"Father  Paul,"  I  thought.  And  to  my  lips 
there  came  a  song  I  'd  heard  on  the  streets  of  Paris, 
"Vrai  Dieu  d* Amour"  with  a  tag  of  memory  how 
lads  and  lasses  had  danced  to  it :  And  how,  when 
the  dance  was  done,  their  hands  lay  happily  to 
gether.  I  hummed  the  tune,  and  although  I  knew 
not  the  words  the  poet  had  put  therein,  yet  the 
name  of  Diane  fitted  to  the  lilt,  and  I  was  in  felic 
ity.  Joshua  had  once  stopped  the  sun.  At  my 
prayer  might  he  not  hold  the  stars  as  well  and 
stretch  out  this  contented  night  to  years'? 

Then  we  clacked  through  a  town,  where  a  sleepy 
dog  raised  his  nose  and  howled.     No  challenge 
else.     We  stopped  but  once,  and  this  was  to  give 
our  horses  water.     I  tightened  my  horse's  girth- 
then  on,  and  still  no  time  for  speech  with  Diane. 

Through  the  night  we  rode  side  by  side.  The 
sky  was  set  with  a  thousand  stars.  The  heavens, 
methinks,  made  a  feast  and  lighted  all  their  can- 


A  Song  for  Two  Voices  357 

dies  in  our  honor.  And  the  streams  and  wind 
were  music  for  our  betrothal.  When  wind  and 
water  play  in  concert  they  shame  the  pipe  and 
fiddle. 

And  presently  there  came  into  the  night  the 
spirit  of  morning.  The  stars  dimmed  and  the  sky 
to  the  east  was  fading.  The  wind  had  fallen,  and 
the  earth  lay  hushed.  As  darkness  sends  shadows 
to  announce  its  coming,  and  with  its  long  dark 
fingers  seizes  on  the  world,  in  similar  fashion  the 
day,  when  it  would  proclaim  itself,  sets  signal- 
fires  upon  the  mountain  tops.  And  to  one  let 
loose  from  Loches,  the  world  seemed  good  and 
pure,  fresh  and  beautiful. 

At  the  foot  of  an  incline  we  crossed  a  bridge 
above  the  sound  of  a  running  stream,  and  thence 
our  way  led  up  hill.  The  horses  slowed  to  a  walk. 
The  cock  gave  trumpet  to  the  dawn.  The  crea 
ture  stood  on  tiptoe  to  catch  the  sun  beyond  the 
hills.  And  yet  what  were  cocks  and  dawn  to 
me — or  the  great  round  sun  itself?  Let  the 
world  grow  black  or  light,  all 's  one.  Nor  with 
Jacques  did  I  feel  concernment,  whether  he  were 
near  or  far.  If  near,  let  him  fall  back,  for  I  had 
words  for  Diane's  ear  alone ! 


358  Luca  Sarto 

"Look,  Diane,"  I  said,  "the  sun  will  be  show 
ing  soon  above  the  hills.  It  is  coming  out  of 
Italy,  and  it  has  a  welcome  for  us." 

Diane  turned  and  met  my  eyes.  "A  welcome 
for  you,  Sarto,"  she  said  slowly,  "but  I  am  Bur- 
gundian  and  I  am  going  away  from  home." 

"Home?"  I  repeated.  "May  not  Italy  be  a 
home  for  both  of  us*?" 

Diane's  eyes  were  on  me  still.  They  were  as 
blue  as  the  morning  sky. 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  we  drew  rein.  Below 
us  lay  a  valley  in  misty  garment.  Up  from  the 
horizon  long  threads  of  light  were  stretched  like 
Tyrian  stuff,  ready  to  weave  the  gorgeous  fabric 
of  the  day. 

"Diane,"  I  said,  "this  France  of  yours  has  been 
good  to  me." 

"Alas,  Sarto,  it  has  served  you  ill." 

"Dearest,"  I  said,  "it  has  given  me  this  night, 
this  ride,  this  moment,  and— 

"And  for  the  asking,  Luca  Sarto,  it  has  given 
you  myself,"  she  ended  quietly. 

I  reached  forth  and  touched  her  hand.  "My 
beloved,"  I  said,  "there  's  a  priest  sits  waiting  in 
the  mountains."  I  kissed  her  lips.  A  single  star, 
unfaded  in  the  west,  was  witness. 


A  Song  for  Two  Voices  359 

What  has  been  written  is  but  the  prologue,  and 
this  has  now  an  end.  I  tap  upon  the  boards  and 
close  the  curtain.  I  pack  my  pipes  and  viols. 
My  doublets,  cloaks  and  wigs  I  restore  to  the  tire- 
ing  box.  I  blow  out  the  row  of  candles  that 
have  shined  in  the  faces  of  my  villains  and  my 
lady.  Go  out  my  door,  I  bid  you,  and  seek  a 
juggler  to  complete  your  entertainment.  God 
knows  my  fingers  are  weary  of  the  pen,  and  all 
besmutched  with  ink.  In  silence  I  leave  the  com 
pletion  of  my  play. 

Sweets  and  cabbage,  you  have  them  all.  The 
oven  's  empty. 

As  for  the  brawl  in  France,  it  was  in  the  eve 
ning  twilight  that  we  heard  a  trumpet  before  us 
on  the  road  and  saw  presently  a  gleam  of  metal. 
"It's  the  men  of  Burgundy!"  cried  Jacques. 
"They  go  to  smoke  out  Louis  from  his  hole." 
For  an  hour  the  army  passed  us.  Then  we  took 
the  road  again.  It  would  now  be  the  safer  trav 
eling.  But  for  the  adventures  that  befell  us  on 
our  journey  into  Switzerland,  not  a  word!  It  is 
enough  that  I  showed  my  usual  valor,  and  that  we 
came  safe  off.  And  if  by  this  omission  you  think 
I  've  cheated  you,  and  that  your  entrance  fee  has 
been  falsely  paid,  by  God  I  '11  stab  you.  You 


^60  Luca  Sarto 

have    had    your    money's    worth    and    enough. 

As  for  this  smudge  that  was  darkening  France 
and  whether  it  smoked  Louis  off  his  gilded  stool, 
go  look  it  up  yourself!  You  will  have  a  better 
memory  of  it,  if  you  blear  your  eyes  upon  a  folio. 

Madame  Corday?  On  my  soul  I  had  forgotten 
her.  She  traveled  to  Loches  with  Louis,  but  I 
had  not  seen  her  there.  She  was  a  pleasant  lady 
— but  with  a  nurse's  figure.  Who  knows?  God 
may  have  granted  her  a  husband  with  a  blink. 

Pope  Paul?  He  died  inside  a  month,  and  Ro- 
vere  became  his  successor  as  Sixtus  IV.  It  was  a 
golden  Rome  for  Sarto  and  Diane.  I  painted  her 
beauty  on  a  hundred  walls. 

As  for  Loches  and  the  church  upon  the  hill ! 
To  this  day  pilgrims — broken  folk  with  rheums 
and  gravel — mumble  their  prayers  against  the 
stones  and  kiss  the  hem  of  the  Madonna's  skirt. 
And  priests  tell  how  the  Virgin  once  came  to  life 
and  roamed  the  dungeons  in  the  night. 

Here  I  shall  stop  my  history.  I  have  laid 
forth  my  peddler's  pack  of  words,  have  weighed 
and  scrupled  them  like  tradesmen's  wares  and,  al 
though  there  are  stuffs  and  gauds  I  have  not 
shown,  I  shut  my  pack. 


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